Inner Beasts: The 95th Annual Hunger Games
by 2017tnt
Summary: We might call ourselves civilized, but deep inside, we're nothing more than beasts. Anyone who enters will have to make the choice between leaving with their life or their humanity. Let the 95th Annual Hunger Games begin. Rated T because it's the Hunger Games. (SYOT closed. Thanks to everyone who submitted a tribute!)
1. Prologue: That Special Time of Year

**Prologue: That Special Time of Year**

* * *

 **One Week Before Reapings**

* * *

 **Summer Coxell, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

All our hard work has finally paid off.

Frankly, it's more the work of my colleagues than mine. They created most of the ideas, all I really had to do was approve or reject them. Sure, now and then I did end up contributing a useful idea- like one of the main gimmicks of the arena- but most of the time I just supervised my coworkers, listening to their conversations, settling arguments, and helping those who were struggling. They were the minds behind the arena, I just coordinated them.

Which makes how precarious my position is even more ironic.

You see, _every_ time something has gone wrong in a specific year's Games- whether it was flaws in the design, a "rebellious" tribute winning, or simply that they were "too boring"- the Head Gamemaker would "retire". Most of the time, they were found dead in their homes under mysterious circumstances. Everyone knows who the culprit is, but no one wants to call them out on it, because they don't want to be the next on the chopping block.

So, this games must be exciting, yet uneventful. Unforgettable, yet by-the-numbers. Seemingly impossible to top, yet merely setting up the stage for the next Games.

With that series of contradictions, I'm beginning to wonder how Head Gamemakers even last _one_ year. I still had a week before the Reapings, and I'm already panicking.

One of the workers, a young man named Terry whose last name I didn't remember, peers out the door, and then falls back in a state of exaggerated shock.

"He's coming!"

"Who's he? The president?" This coming from the youngest person here, an eighteen-year-old woman named Garden Flowers (yes, really). While she's sweet as could be, has a keen eye for design, and possesses a body most men would feel weak upon seeing, nobody can deny that she's a bit of a ditz.

"No, Santa Claus is coming. Of course the president!" Terry yells back.

"Everyone, in positions!" I yell, but it's a pointless statement. Everyone else has dropped whatever they were doing, and they all move towards the ornate double doors, ready to greet the President.

That just leaves me. _Of course I'm the last one ready,_ I think to myself. Breaking into a jog, I make it to my spot just as the huge doors swing open with a groan.

Standing in the space the door once occupied is the President of Panem, Mr. Vincent Wainwright. He's a tall man, about thirty, with a skin complexion similar to milk. As for his face, he has a pair of piercing green eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses, a crooked nose (legend says he was part of a notorious Capitol gang known as Detonation before rising to power), and a perpetually frowning mouth, packed with more teeth than that of the average person. He was clean-shaven, not a hint of mustache or beard adorned his face. As for the rest of him, it was nothing to linger on. Stilt-like legs, a diamond wedding ring on his left hand, expensive clothes covering up the rest of him.

Despite his appearance, he was nowhere near as insane as our last President, a man named Mr. Snow. I wasn't a Gamemaker back then, but the elders who still clutch at memories of him say he was nothing short of a lunatic. The worst part of it was that he was a _smart_ lunatic, and knew exactly how much he was capable of getting away with. He'd assassinated possible political rivals, murdered several dozen Gamemakers who displeased him, caused nearly half a million District starvation deaths over his reign… the list goes on.

However, President Wainwright is not nearly so radical. While he isn't afraid to kill anyone who displeases him, mostly Gamemakers and rebellious District officials, he also increased rations and relaxed labor quotas on all the non-rebelling Districts. This pleased the Districts immensely, and the scant traces of rebellion that had remained dissipated less than three months later. Since his reign started, there haven't been any rebellions, or even talks of one, for almost ten years. It's better for him, better for us, and better for them, all at once.

He kept the Hunger Games going as a symbol of the Capitol's power, but other than that, he's staying pretty hands-off, leaving the Districts alone unless they fail to meet the quotas. _Then_ he steps in, but I have no idea what goes on while he's visiting the Districts, for I've never left the splendor of the Capitol.

As expected, he speaks first. "Is the arena ready yet?"

As the head Gamemaker, I'm obliged to be the person who responds. "Almost, sir. We just need to make a few tweaks to the landscape.

He frowns. "You're behind schedule."

Desperate to change the subject, I speak again. "Would you like to see what we have so far?"

"Can't hurt." As soon as he says that, he's striding towards the main screen, where a holographic projection of the arena is displayed in real time. He checks all areas of the arena, making sure that there aren't any areas where nothing exciting will ever happen, mostly areas that are either near impossible to reach or are so barren and void of anything that no tribute in their right mind would ever stay there any longer than necessary. Based on all the nodding and the fact that his frown is gone, something tells me we've done our job to make the arena as interesting as possible.

"It's pretty good," he says, before turning to a smaller screen that showcases the arena's "gimmick," if you know what I mean.

At this, he nods even more. He even smiles a little. I haven't seen him this happy since six months ago, when he'd gotten very, very drunk and witnessed a fistfight between two women over another guy.

"Simple, but effective," he says. "I like everything that's planned so far. I can have the gimmick made for the arena before the reapings start."

With that, he turns away, walking back to the entrance he came from and disappearing. Finally, I can allow myself a bit of hope.

No matter the cost, I have to make these games spectacular.

* * *

 **Vincent Wainwright, President of Panem**

* * *

These games look like they're going to be interesting, if nothing else.

The arena I was shown was pretty clever and intricate, the twist even more so. However, I'd said that many times in my first nine years in office, and no matter what, next year was almost always better.

I say _almost_ , because last year, the winning tribute was, to put it lightly, a wreck. He'd come from District 9, which many Capitolites considered a write-off right from the start. He'd only scored a five in training, and it wasn't because he wasn't trying. He'd only survived due to a freak accident at the end of the Games. There had only been three tributes left- him, the girl from One, and the boy from Four. Once all three had made it to the Cornucopia, both the others had left him alone, realizing he wasn't a real threat. However, during their duel, they'd caused such severe damage to each other that even the boy from Four, who eventually triumphed over his opponent, was in no condition to fight. He'd been killed by the victor, his only kill of the entire games.

As expected, the (former) head Gamemaker resigned after that year. Even though I'd offed a head Gamemaker, I left him alone, realizing that year was the exception and not the rule for him. However, it ended up not mattering, because he'd committed suicide by gunshot two months after retiring.

The tributes, of course, have yet to come, the reapings being a full week away. _They're_ the variable that can make or break the Games. No matter how good an arena is, a weak or bland crop of tributes can sabotage the Gamemakers' best efforts to liven things up. However, interesting or powerful tributes can salvage a mediocre arena.

This sets up a wild internal debate for me: should I rig some of the reapings for non-Career districts to spice things up a bit? Or should I leave them alone and hope some powerful outliers come into the mix on their own?

Eventually, I decide to let the reapings progress naturally this year. Last year, even _with_ several rigged reapings, had been a disaster nonetheless. Also, it'd be better to keep the Districts placated, at least until next year.

Unlike my predecessor, I follow the philosophy that if the Districts are kept reasonably well-fed and don't have to work themselves to the bone to meet the arbitrary amount of goods we supposedly need for ourselves, they have no reason to rebel. So far, it's worked. Even the rowdier Districts, like 6 and 12, haven't even attempted a large-scale rebellion since shortly after I took office.

All I could do was hope this year's Hunger Games would not be the tipping point.

* * *

 **Burton Goldfinch, Capitol Citizen**

* * *

I'm walking at a quick pace down the sidewalk.

Having just left my day job as a commercial director, all I'm thinking about is getting home so that I can see my wife and children again.

The atmosphere was charged, almost electric, on the set today. The actors all put more _oomph_ into their roles than usual, the script writers never moved slower than a brisk jog as they moved from set to set, even the set designers seemed excited, chatting animatedly with each other in between the many takes.

I didn't have any idea why until my friend and colleague, Jessica Porter, mentioned it over a hasty lunch: the reapings for the Hunger Games were just a week away.

I'd instantly gained some respect for the President when he'd announced, the day he took office, that he wasn't discontinuing the Hunger Games. Even if he is getting way too chummy with the Districts while simultaneously shorting us of what we desired in the process, he still left the Hunger Games in place.

The Games, if nothing else, make for some good television.

As I burst through the door, I'm practically attacked by my ten-year-old twin daughters, Daria and Janice.

"Daddy, we're _so_ happy you're home!" They both squealed this at the top of their lungs.

"I know! But right now, Daddy has to go make dinner, OK?"

They sigh, but detach themselves from my legs. This doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's a terrible, cruel time for all of us.

My wife, Zinnia, is sitting still in an easy chair, covered in blankets staring off into space. The television isn't on, even though she adores every pre-Hunger Games show there is. She's just lying there, dead to the world.

She hadn't always been this way. At around age forty, she decided to go for her first body-altering surgery, claiming she looked old and beat-down compared to everyone around her. While she still looked beautiful to me, I gave her my consent. However, during the surgery, several complications cropped up, and while it was still successful, it had a dreadful side effect. About once a week, she'd feel unrelenting pain everywhere, and the painkillers she'd been given a prescription for only helped so much. She'd zone out, trying to ignore the agony, as wave after wave of it racked her body. She'd be like this for about half a day, then, as soon as it passed, she'd be back to her regular, lively self.

Right now, she was in the midst of one of these painful stretches. Which meant I had to cook and clean and do all the things she normally took care of.

Half an hour later, something that could pass for split-pea soup is on the table. I pour bowls for the girls and myself, then bring a bowl into the living room for my wife.

As she takes miniscule sips of the hot liquid, all I can do is hope for it to pass soon, and hope she'll be alert to watch the Games with me. Daria and Janice can see bits and pieces of it for now, but I don't want them seeing all the gory parts yet. When they're thirteen, they can watch a full Hunger Games, I'd told them. We hardly ever watch them live- mostly me and Zinnia just record each segment and watch it the next day, so we can screen it for Daria and Janice before letting them watch select parts.

Zinnia loves the Games, and it'd feel wrong to watch them all by myself, without her being able to experience the event she loves so much.

For her sake and mine, all I can do is hope that the pain passes for her, and that we can watch the Games together, side by side, holding each other.

Just like always.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-This is an open SYOT! Feel free to submit, but I'll only take three tributes per author. The form is on my profile.

-I will ONLY accept submissions done through PM. If you are a guest and would like to submit, leave a review to reserve a spot (Only one spot per person can be reserved at a time), and I will hold it for you for up to 7 days. That should be more than enough time to make an account and PM me your tribute. The spot reserving will work the same way for those who can PM me initially, although in that case, I'd prefer that you PM me which spot you would like to reserve.

-The next chapter will be written when I get my first completely full district. May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!

-EDIT, AUGUST 8th, 2019: If you don't really care about these tributes' backstories, feel free to skip to Chapter Twenty-Five (it's labeled as Chapter Twenty-Four because I don't count the prologue as a chapter number). Trust me, I will not judge you for doing so.


	2. D1M: Keep Pandora's Box Closed

**Chapter One: Keep Pandora's Box Closed**

* * *

 **One Day Before Reapings**

* * *

 **Nascar Galluci, District One Male**

* * *

"Nascar? You OK?"

I'm sitting on a bench outside the academy with my best friend, Peridot. All I want to do is kill time until Dolores and Luz come out.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just kind of dizzy."

"Well, you have every right to be dizzy after being selected."

The word _selected_ causes doubt to rush through my brain at top speed. "I already told you, I can't do this. I'm not good enough to win."

"Then why would they select you? Do you know how many eighteen-year-olds would _kill_ to be in your position? Literally?"

Before I can answer, the doors to the girls' side of the training facility open, and everyone comes pouring out, including Dolores and Luz, who walk over and sit down next to the two of us.

Before I can shush him, Peridot blurts out the one thing I don't want him to say. "You two are looking at the selected boys' volunteer for the Ninety-Fifth Hunger Games!"

Luz smiles. "Congratulations, Nascar!"

I'm already pale, but I go even paler after that compliment. Great. Now I have three friends who know I'm supposed to volunteer, and who probably are going to kill me if I don't. Sure, Dolores wants to be able to volunteer next year, but still, that's _next year_. I only have one day. And with my luck, I won't be around to see Dolores compete.

All I can think to ask, however, is "Who got picked for the girls?"

Dolores speaks up. "Some chick named Clara. She's eighteen, and honestly, I think she's in your league…"

"No! I already told you guys this, but I do _not_ want to go there! I can barely handle all the relationships I have now. The last thing I need to add is a girlfriend." That's a bold-faced lie. There are other reasons I don't want a girlfriend, but I'd rather keep those to myself.

Dolores begins to talk again. "My friend Amber is hosting a big party tonight to celebrate the Games. Would you guys like to come?"

Luz nods, but Peridot and I shake our heads.

"I know there's going to be kids who train for the Games there, and I can't stand most of them," Peridot says. "Especially if there's going to be alcohol involved."

"Why? Most of them seem nice enough to me," Dolores says.

"They think I'm a weakling, remember? That I'm soft, just because I'm not like them. That's why I started walking home with Nascar every day: they wouldn't try and beat me up when I was with him. However, I don't want to take my chances with them when they're drunk."

I nod calmly. While I wish I'd been able to let my emotions run wild and beat them up myself, that wouldn't match the personality I show.

"I have to go see Garnet and tell him the news," I say, "Then I have to go home and take care of Merchandise and Jewel."

"Your parents out again?" Peridot says.

"Of course they are." I pick up my water bottle- the only thing I brought with me to training. "I should probably get going. See you guys at the Reaping tomorrow."

As we wave goodbye at each other, I try to force out the idea that this may be one of the last times I ever see them.

* * *

Five minutes later, I'm standing in front of Garnet's house.

Garnet is the only one of my close friends who isn't training for the Games. Given his personality, however, it makes sense.

I ring the doorbell, hoping someone will answer. Someone does. However, it's not Garnet, it's his mother.

"Oh! Hello, Nascar," she beams. "You looking for Garnet?"

"I'll assume he's in his room again?"

She sighs. "Of course he is. Do you want me to get him?"

"No, I'll come to him." Garnet may have some friends, but he's not exactly a 'people' person.

I walk upstairs to his room, where he's sitting on the bed reading, as usual. Unsurprisingly, it takes a few seconds for him to notice I'm there. Then, he finds a bookmark, sticks it in the book, and sets it aside before meeting my eyes.

He smiles at me, but doesn't say anything. This is pretty normal for him- he usually wants the other person to make the first move. He can't keep up a conversation very long on his own, so he just prefers to talk about whatever the other person wants to.

"Garnet, I was selected as the District volunteer today," I say.

"Wow! Just- wow," he says quietly. "I'm not a big fan of the Games, but I wish you luck."

"Thanks," I say with a plastered-on smile, "I'm going to need it."

"See you at the Reaping," he says. Sure enough, that entire conversation lasted less than a minute.

"You too."

I say goodbye to Garnet and his mother, and then head for home.

* * *

A short while later, I'm home.

As expected, neither of my parents are here. They're out 'running errands,' as Merchandise puts it, complete with ridiculously oversized air quotes.

This means I have to cook dinner, feed Jewel, my baby sister, make sure Merchandise has done his homework… the list goes on.

I'm a terrible cook, but I do know how to make frozen pizza, so I pop one in the oven and set the timer. After tossing a sorry mess of lettuce leaves and carrots together with bottled dressing of some kind to try and up the 'health' factor of the meal a little, I take the pizza out of the oven and pitch everything on the table.

"Merchandise!" I'm yelling down the hall, hoping he hears me the first time. "Dinner!"

"Coming!"

As Merchandise sweeps into the room, I take the bottle my mother left on the counter for Jewel, my baby sister, and begin to feed her. She's only a few months old, but she already looks like she's going to grow up to be a stunner- beautiful green eyes, already growing lots of brown hair, always smiling.

 _I just have to hope I'm there to see it_ , I think to myself as Jewel sucks down the last few drops.

I haven't told Merchandise the news yet, but I figured it'd be better to wait until both my parents are home. I only want to have to tell everyone once.

Sitting down at the table across from Merchandise, I chew on the haphazard salad I made, waiting for Mom and Dad to arrive.

* * *

It takes almost three hours, two of Jewel's dirty diapers, and one long battle with Merchandise over his math homework, but both of my parents are finally home from their 'errands.'

Of course, the second they're both home, they start arguing with each other.

You see, my parents can't stand each other anymore. They've been cheating on each other, each of them trying to one-up the other, for _years_ at this point. I never had the nerve to ask what started it, but all I know is that the last three years have been hell for both of them. They do nothing but argue whenever they're together, but have never gotten around to just getting a divorce and making it official.

My father, Monarch, is staying remarkably calm throughout all this, but my mother, Sariose, is getting increasingly ticked, and starting to get into Dad's face. It's clear that this is going to escalate out of control, and I won't be able to stop it.

Unless I play my final card. I hate having to do this, but it's the only way I can stop their fighting.

Running into the kitchen, I grab a steak knife. Pointing it inward and making sure that everyone can see, I scream, "STOP!"

My parents stop for just a second and stare at me. Then they stare at the knife I have pointed at my own chest.

It feels like it takes forever, but they slowly back away from each other, the hate leaving their eyes. Then they turn away from each other, muttering obscenities the whole time. Slowly, and while making sure they're not going to start up again, I walk into the kitchen and put the knife back.

In spite of everything, I start smiling. I defused that bomb before it went off.

Usually, when the fighting between them gets so bad that even I can't stand it, I leave the house, taking Merchandise and Jewel with me, and wait it out at the house of my head trainer, Ferdinand, who knows about the craziness that goes on at my house.

Just thinking about him makes me feel awkward and weak again. Ferdinand's the reason I've never gotten a girlfriend. Despite being a much better father to me than Monarch has ever been for the past few years, I have a real and serious crush on him. I've never told him that, though, because I don't want to have that awkward conversation with my parents about my sexuality. And with the Games coming tomorrow, I'll likely never get the chance to profess my feelings to him.

However, now that my parents are relatively calm and _not_ in the process of verbally assaulting each other, I can finally tell them the big news.

"Guys!" I yell down the hall, hoping everyone hears me. "I need to tell everyone something, and it can't wait until tomorrow."

Merchandise speeds into the room first. "Did you finally ask your girlfriend out?"

What is it with everyone thinking about me either having or needing to get a girlfriend?

"Merchandise, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't have a girlfriend!"

My parents enter together, glaring at each other, but keeping silent. Jewel, of course, is being carried by my mother, and rests on her lap as she sits down.

Once everyone is seated, I finally spill the beans. "I got chosen as the designated volunteer for the Games. This means I leave tomorrow for the Capitol. If someone else doesn't beat me to the punch, of course."

Jewel, obviously, doesn't seem to react.

Merchandise's mouth falls open.

My mother says nothing, her eyes wide with shock.

My father… he's a different story. He actually stands up and claps me on the back, saying, "That's my boy!"

Then, he pulls me closer, whispering in my ear. "I know you can do this, son. Make me proud."

My mother has overheard this, unfortunately. "Make you proud? How can he do that if he's going to die?"

Wow. Great way to improve my self-esteem, Mom.

However, I know they're going to start up again. It's too late to go to Ferdinand's, as he has a family to take care of as well. Instead, I just exit the room, grabbing Merchandise and Jewel on the way out, and move them upstairs where the arguing is muffled by the walls between us.

Even though it's only around ten o'clock, I go to my room, shut off the lights, and hunker down in bed, listening to my parents' muffled argument downstairs.

I still love both my parents, but living with them is becoming impossible given how terrible their relationship is. However, the Hunger Games, despite the fact that I think I have no shot, could be a blessing in disguise. If I win, it could be my ticket out of here. Not just for me, but for Merchandise and Jewel, too.

But, it's a make-or-break moment. These games will either save or slowly kill everyone I love.

Even though I'm nervous and scared out of my mind for what tomorrow will bring, for the sake of Merchandise and Jewel, I allow myself just the tiniest fragment of hope. Even as I go to sleep, my brain is screaming one thing:

 _I'll win this, no matter what._

 _For them._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry for keeping you waiting so long for the first update. I'm still in high school and the quarter closes this week, and a combination of tests, homework, and life got in the way. I'll try to have the next tribute out faster.

-You may have noticed I said _tribute,_ singular. Yes, I'm only going to do one tribute at a time. This is to both speed up the amount of time between each updates and keep my chapter lengths fairly consistent. One of my major weaknesses with writing is that I am REALLY wordy, hence the fact I spent nearly 2,000 words on my first tribute without even getting to the Reaping. Therefore, I'm writing one tribute per chapter to introduce them individually, then getting the Reapings done all at once, and more as a compilation than an in-depth look (idea taken from Krystal Fox's _The 71st Hunger Games: In Ruins_ , which was the first complete SYOT story I ever read and what inspired me to make one of these in the first place).

-Tributes are being done in the order that I got them. Therefore, the next three in line are the D12M, D1F, and D2F. Lined up behind them are the D2M, D3M, D10M, D4F and D4M. All other spots are available, and the form is on my profile! (However, if you didn't see in the prologue, I'm limiting the tribute count to three per author.)

-Thanks to 20 for Nascar. I really enjoyed writing his parents (maybe I have problems) and his opening conversation with his friends. Santiago also wrote the next two tributes that are coming up, but again, first come, first served.

-I'll try to get out the next chapter a little faster. Anyways, see you at Chapter Two- D12M.


	3. D12M: Life is Overrated

**Chapter Two: Life is Overrated**

* * *

 **Same Day**

* * *

 **Maxxer "Max" Bent, District Twelve Male**

* * *

I'm walking along the fence line, hoping to whoever might be listening up there that no one notices me.

Oh, I'm easy to recognize. Maybe it's the all-black outfit. Maybe it's the slightly crazed look in my eyes. Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't been seen with another person outside of family in years.

I'd never bothered asking. Why should I? All it would get me is laughed at. And that happens enough already.

I don't have anyone to turn to, not even family. No one cares. They never will.

Just a couple of months ago, I'd been riding on top of the world. I'd had a steady group of friends. We'd hung out together. Nothing much, just basic stuff. But that was way more than enough for me.

Even with every effort I've taken to blot their names from existence, they're still fresh in my mind. Niko, the archetypical nerd. Matthias, whose father was in prison for selling illegal drugs. Valentine, the socially withdrawn girl the popular girls had bullied mercilessly. Acu, who had a severe stuttering problem. Gidion, who I'd never trusted fully, who had strange "family issues" that caused him to miss weeks of school at a time. And _Ignacius._

The thought makes me angry all over again. _Why was I the idiot that chose to side with him?_

My relationship with the group had already been strained at that point, since I'd come out to them as being gay. They'd always suspected, due to my _tendencies,_ but saying it aloud had just proved it. I'd trusted them with that secret, before my grandmother, aunt, uncle, cousins, brothers, and even my parents. But, there was one event that proved to be the tipping point.

A few months ago, Ignacius had been accused of stealing something. There had been no evidence other than the fact that the object was missing. Ignacius had denied it. Trying to help him, since stealing did not seem like his thing, I'd supported his statement.

Everything went wrong after that.

Ignacius somehow started a rumor that _I_ had stolen the object, set it up so that he'd take the blame, and then sided with him to divert suspicion away from me.

I have no idea why any of my "friends" believed him. Everyone knew I was nowhere near smart enough to pull that off. Myself included.

But they did anyway. From that point onward, I was excluded from everything they did. Whenever they happened to see me, they just turned away and pretended I didn't exist.

That was the day I broke. I always knew something had been messed up with my head, but that was the first time I realized I'd never be normal again.

I didn't have anyone anymore. All that was left was me.

And I'm terrible company.

* * *

I've been crouching in a stand of bushes for half an hour.

I want the square to be empty, or at least mostly empty, before I make my move. I don't want to be spotted by anyone.

Eventually, the market closes, and the square slowly empties. Soon, almost no one is there, except for one annoying group of teens hanging out near the edge. I just have to hope they don't see me.

Emerging from the clump of bushes, I start to book it towards the other edge of the square, head down, arms pumping, and breathing hard. I avoid looking towards them: all it will do is trigger them.

Miraculously, I make it to the other side without anyone from their group saying anything, throwing any comments my way, or otherwise being jerks to me. Good. That's better for them, and better for me.

Better for them, I say, because before I learned to rein it in a couple of years ago, I had a _real_ psychotic streak. And I do mean psychotic. When I was eight, I sent one kid to the hospital with bite marks all over his face. He was a huge bully before that incident, but, no surprise, he steered clear of me after that. A year later, another kid had to get a pencil surgically removed from her hip. She'd also bullied me up until that point, but she avoided me after that happened.

My parents hauled me off to psychiatrists each time it happened. They were the literal definition of useless. The bullying didn't stop and the crazy incidents kept happening.

However, due to the combination of my bizarre outbursts towards anyone teasing me and some of my bullies just maturing a bit, most of it eventually stopped. After that ended, I learned to keep my emotions under control. More outbursts would just make everything worse.

It's getting dark. I know I have to go home eventually. But home is not a very happy place for me. In fact, it's no better than anywhere else.

Sometimes, I wish I lived anywhere else. But wishes like that don't get granted.

Groaning, I turn for home, hoping in vain that the house is empty.

* * *

No surprise, I return to a not-empty house.

Sure, I'm still outside, so it's hard to tell, but I can see flickering from lanterns- clearly the electricity isn't working again- and hear loud talking coming from the one open window.

I knock on the front door.

The person who comes to the door is not my mother or father, thankfully. Instead, it's Poole, my older brother.

"Oh, it's you, Max," he says. Then he beckons me inside.

"Of course it's me," I reply. _I don't need to say that, he already knows, idiot._

He walks me down the hall, to where two of his friends, Karolyn and Erik Gypsum, are sitting together in makeshift chairs. He goes into the kitchen and drags out two more chairs- one for him, one for me- and takes a seat.

I move my seat a considerable distance away from the three of them before sitting. I've never been comfortable around his friends.

Karolyn, surprisingly, makes the first move. "So, what happened today?"

I could, of course, tell them exactly what happened. _Jay and Ashley found a hose somehow and got me soaked before school started. I found out I got a C- on my last math test. I told the principal about the hose incident after school, he did nothing, and then I told Mom, who made a crude remark about me needing a shower anyway. After working with Mom and Dad for three hours at the shop, I took a long walk and had to resist the urge to slash my arm before I went home._

But, I don't. I don't deserve anyone's pity. So, instead, I say "Nothing much."

"That's great!" Karolyn again.

My younger brother, Mirkin, darts into the room at top speed, then stands in front of me, stares at Poole, and frowns.

"Them again?" Mirkin's trying to make it seem like he's pitying Poole for not having more friends over, but everyone knows he's just jealous about how he can't pick up friends as easily as Poole does. None of us have seen him with anyone except Justin Cleave, his best friend, for years.

"Oh, brother dear, of _course_ them again," Poole replies. Then, he resumes talking with the two of them.

Mirkin frowns, tears coming to his eyes, then storms out of the room. _Oh, relax. It's not like someone died or anything._

As soon as Poole's conversation with Karolyn and Erik seems to stop, I ask him the inevitable question. "Where's everyone else?"

"You just saw Mirkin, Mom and Dad are closing up shop last time I checked, Grandma Roa's asleep in her room, Aunt Lara just left for her shift at the mines, Uncle Damien's coming home from his shift, and Norton and Oliver are cooking dinner." Poole says this all without pausing for breath.

Then, I hear two near-identical voices call out from the kitchen. "Dinner's done!"

"Uh, Poole, we gotta ditch," Erik says. "We know dinner's going to be tight for you guys as is, and we probably have our own dinner waiting at home."

Karolyn nods, and the two of them head for the front door.

The two of them are nearly flattened by the appearances of Uncle Damien, Mom, and Dad, conveniently timed to intercept dinner. The three of them wash up in the bathroom, then all of them say something different to me.

"Hey there, Max," Uncle Damien says.

"Your hair's all messy again," my mother says.

"Would you mind waking up Grandma Roa?" This coming from my father.

I don't respond, but I do climb up the creaky ladder to the second floor and walk to Grandma's bedroom.

She's asleep, just as Poole said. Shaking her gently, I call out, "Grandma, dinner's done."

She blinks herself awake, says "Thanks for telling me, Max," and shambles over to the ladder.

Following her down, I seat myself at the splintered table in the kitchen, where a meager meal is laid out for the nine of us. It's just an assortment of vegetables left over from my parents' shop, along with a loaf of bread we'd bought from the town baker, who I don't remember the name of.

As expected, it's gone in minutes. There isn't even a trace of an opportunity for seconds. Food is a precious commodity here. There isn't much, and whatever there is mysteriously vanishes as soon as it's discovered.

As soon as I'm done eating, I scrape the flecks of stuck-on food off my plate with a dirty knife, then vanish from the table into the room I share with Norton and Oliver.

That room holds some nasty secrets of its own, but I haven't shared those with anyone, and Norton and Oliver haven't found out about them. Yet.

I crawl under the bed, where the worst parts of myself, the parts I don't share with anyone, are kept. A bloodstained pair of scissors I use when I can't take my life anymore. Crude drawings of my friends Valentine made for everyone before I was excluded from my former friend group. The tiny handful of achievements I actually have to my name- I don't feel like I earned any of those. Finally, a cheesy romance novel I mock to cheer myself up whenever the scissors just don't seem to do the trick.

Then, I take off my long-sleeve shirt. The scars that keep me sane are revealed once more.

"Max? You in there?"

Crap. It's Dad. I throw my shirt back on and pull myself out from under the bed just as he enters the room.

He frowns within seconds. The first thing he says is "Your side of the room is a mess."

No duh. I don't have many clothes, but most of the ones I do have are on the floor. I just don't see the point of picking them up if I know I'm going to just throw them on the floor again. I have enough problems to deal with in my life already, and in terms of importance, cleanliness is pretty far down.

"I expect a response when I say something to you, you know."

"Sorry, Dad." _Stop getting lost in your thoughts and start answering him, numbskull!_

"Clean it up," he growls before leaving the room.

I groan and toss all the clothes into the box that serves as my dresser. _What to wear tomorrow?_

Then, the recognition comes to me. Tomorrow's the Reaping.

I don't care too much if I get picked. My life is meaningless anyway. I just hope it doesn't get Poole, who's eighteen, or Norton, who's just turned twelve.

But, I can just file the Reaping away on a long list of things I don't worry about.

I just haven't cared about much of anything for quite a while.

And no amount of fortune or misfortune is going to change that.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I don't have much to say this time around. Thanks for bearing with me until inspiration hit. I banged most of this out in an afternoon, then ran it past the creator of the tribute to make sure he was OK with a couple of liberties I'd taken.

-Thanks to 20 again for Maxxer. Coming up is his third and final tribute, the D1F.

-After the D1F, the order is D2F, D2M, D3M, D10M, D4F, D4M, D3F, and D8M. All other spots are still open for those who wish to submit and haven't done so already!

-Two down, twenty-two to go. Hopefully, this next update will be sooner rather than later.


	4. D1F: Leaving the Safety Zone

**Chapter Three: Leaving the Safety Zone**

* * *

 **Still the Same Day**

* * *

 **Clara Ridley, District One Female**

* * *

I should have known this would have been my year.

I've been working for _years_ to earn this spot. Giving it my all. Pouring blood, sweat, tears, and a lot of other bodily fluids into it. Letting my schoolwork, relationships, and even my health fall by the wayside while I trained.

But, in the end, it all paid off. I got the coveted spot of designated volunteer for the Hunger Games this year.

At eighteen, this is the last year I'm eligible, and hopefully my best year.

But it doesn't matter if it's my best year: I'm pretty sure I'd come back home anyway.

However, all of this training had to be done in secret. Neither of my parents could know. My father especially.

That was because of an _incident_ , which I was forbidden from mentioning to anyone.

But I digress.

* * *

Twelve years ago, on a fine summer morning, my father's brother, my Uncle Sunset, decided that he'd sneak out of the District that night. Not for long. He'd just jump a train, jump back off at the first stop, and be back before anyone knew what had happened. Or so he thought.

What actually happened was that after he stowed away on a cargo train bound for the Capitol, a Peacekeeper found him during a routine cabin inspection and shot him on sight. Dead in seconds. The body was never returned.

That was when my parents, my father especially, went into Super-Hyper-Overdrive Child Protective Mode (patent pending) and all but grounded me. From age six until around age eleven, I left the house for school and that was about it. Any time I did have to leave, both of them would have to be with me at all times. I never was able to play with other children, because according to my father, "they'll just give you ideas."

Finally, at age eleven, my parents loosened the boundaries a little. That was the first year they let me walk to school, about three minutes away, on my own.

A few months after that, I finally made a friend, a girl named Diamond Cleant. Even though she was a year younger than me, it was pretty clear we clicked after a few hours together.

After two years of seeing each other at every conceivable time, Diamond did something that would impact the rest of my life: she introduced me to the training facility, saying she'd been training there for months.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me. Fast-forward to now, and not only am I in excellent physical shape, I also have the opportunity to win more fame and fortune than any person could ever need.

Finally, it would show my parents that I can handle myself. It wouldn't do to treat a person who won the Hunger Games like a six-year-old.

But, they can never know I'm the designated volunteer.

At least, not until tomorrow.

* * *

By sheer coincidence, I happen to pass by Diamond on the walk home.

"Hey, Diamond. Mind if I stop you for a second?" I need to spill my guts to _someone_ before I leave or else I'm going to explode. And Diamond is my best friend. She deserves to know the news.

"Sure thing, Clara."

We walk over to an empty bench and plop down next to each other. As soon as she stops fidgeting and trying to get comfortable, she stares directly at my eyes.

"Do you have something you need to tell me? I have to get home."

"Yes, I do. And it can't wait."

I make sure to look her in the eyes as I speak. "I got chosen as the designated volunteer today. I'm supposed to leave tomorrow."

A couple of tears leak out of her eyes, but then she starts grinning like a maniac. I can only hope her happiness is genuine.

"Oh, Clara!" This comes out in a gasp. "I- I- I don't know what to say!"

"Don't worry, you don't have to say anything. Just wish me luck."

"That I will, Clara! Good luck!"

Diamond gets up and begins walking towards her house. Once she's out of sight, I begin walking in the other direction.

I try to ignore the thought that I might never see her again.

* * *

I know I need to make one more stop before I get home. I have to go see Myland, my boyfriend of about two years, and tell him the news. Because we're so close, It makes sense to let him know that I'm leaving tomorrow and might not be coming back.

So, I walk up to his front door- only about a block away from my own house- and knock.

Myland, surprisingly enough, answers the door. His mother must be out doing something. "Oh. Hi, Clara."

"Hello. Can I come in for a sec?"

"No problem."

As I step inside, I notice how _clean_ the place looks compared to mine. Sure, living with a one-year-old doesn't help in terms of the cleanliness factor of my house, but it's still never been anywhere near as pristine as this.

As soon as I see that neither of his parents are here, I decide to cut to the chase. My parents will kill me if I come home late.

"Myland, I have something to tell you."

"Is it that I'm the best person you've ever met? Because I got that vibe the day you met me."

"Oh, knock it off!"

Yeah, we do that a lot. It's drawn a lot of crude comments from anyone who's seen us together, but the teasing aspect of our relationship is harmless. Most of the time, at least.

"It's not that. It's something about a million times more important."

"Which is?"

I draw in breath, not sure how he'll respond to this. "I got nominated as the designated volunteer for the Hunger Games. And the Reaping is tomorrow."

His jaw drops, and I mean that literally. His mouth hangs open for a solid half a minute as he tries to form coherent words.

Finally, he forces his mouth closed, and gasps, "What?"

"I'm not making this up. The Reaping is tomorrow. And I'm supposed to volunteer."

He stands there, silently, as tears begin to slide down his cheeks. He's looking away, not wanting to see my face.

I slowly back away. What have I just done? What happened to the person I loved so much for the past two years?

All I can say is "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't- I didn't-" But I can't finish my statement. Watching him break down is too saddening for me.

I try to talk to him again, but he won't stop crying.

Then, I leave, because I realize the best thing I can do is let him grieve in peace.

* * *

I don't bother to knock when I reach home.

My parents are probably beyond antsy right now, because I was home a whole _five minutes_ later than I said I was going to be. The horror!

As soon as I throw the door open, my father, Fraser, strides up to me and begins to get in my face. "Young lady? Why are you late?"

"Dad, I was late by five minutes, can't you just let it go for once?"

"No, I can _not_ let this go!" He's already turned a shade of red that a ruby would envy. "If I let this go, this becomes a pattern. If this becomes a pattern, you become like Uncle Sunset. And if you become like Uncle Sunset…"

"You don't need to finish that statement, Dad. I've been hearing it for the past twelve years." I hope my boredom isn't evident from my expression, but that statement is true.

He somehow goes an even deeper shade of red at that. "I will not tolerate your lip, missy! You're grounded until further notice!"

I can hardly suppress a snicker. Normally, I would have been ticked off that I was grounded for virtually no reason. But I'll be leaving tomorrow, so why should I care?

I just notice that my mother, Tunica, has been listening in on our argument. She hasn't said a word, though. She never does, because she's afraid of offending Fraser. It's annoying, but I don't blame her. If I was married to a sweaty ball of nerves, anger, and over-controlling madness, I'd be afraid of offending him too.

After that exchange, my father is simmering like crazy, so I want to spend as little time near him as possible. Thus, I decide I don't want to eat dinner, instead choosing to grab an apple from the counter and eat it in my room.

As soon as I get to my room, I take in the surroundings for what hopefully is the last time. Gray walls surrounding the zebra-striped bedding, stark white dresser and dark gray tiled floors. My monochromatic wardrobe spread out between the dresser, the bed, and the floor. Even the mirror, instead of being a gold one like the ones both my parents and my younger brother, Alvar, have, is silver and gray. Occasionally, Diamond or Myland would make a joke about how my room made them think I was colorblind, but I'd just laugh it off and point to above my bed.

The one thing in my room that isn't black and white hangs there. It's a drawing Myland had a street artist make me for my sixteenth birthday, shortly before Diamond stopped training. It depicted the three of us in the training room together, immersed in various activities.

"Clara! Dinner's ready!" My mother's calling from downstairs.

"I'm not hungry!" I call down the stairs.

"Too bad! You're eating anyway!" This coming from my father.

Groaning, I trudge down the stairs and plop myself at the dinner table, only to be immediately greeted by a high-pitched wail from Alvar, my one-year-old brother. He's cute and all, but part of me struggles to remember a time when he wasn't constantly crying.

Dinner drags on and on. I don't do much except pick at my food. Between Dad glaring at me from across the table, my mother sighing and shaking her head, and Alvar screeching at the top of his lungs and throwing stuff from his high chair, I don't have much of an appetite anyway.

After an eternal half hour, dinner mercifully ends, and I can escape to my room.

I'm not coming back out until tomorrow. I need some time alone to plan.

First, I take down the drawing. I don't want it to go to waste when I leave, although I'm not sure whether I should bring it with me or give it to Diamond as a belated birthday present.

Eventually, I decide to take it.

After all, it will be a memory of home I can keep.

Then, I get my Reaping outfit set- making sure that everything is exactly to my liking. Black dress, black hat, black boots, black everything.

Finally, I just crawl into bed, even though it's still light out.

I'm not sure whether I'll get the best sleep of my life, knowing I'll be free from my parents tomorrow, or the worst, knowing I'm headed for a death match tomorrow.

Either way, though, I know tomorrow will set me free.

It's just a question of whether that will be through death or through victory.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry Clara took so long. I had a couple of busy weeks combined with lack of motivation. I'll try to get the next tribute out faster, if possible.

-Thanks again to 20 for Clara. This marks the end of his stretch of tributes.

-The next tribute out will be the D2F, created by Galaxy842.

-After that comes the D2M, D3M, D10M, D4F, D4M, D3F, D8M, D7M, D6F, D8F, and D12F.

-I still need both from 5, the boy from 6, the girl from 7, both from 9, the girl from 10, and both from 11. If you want to submit and haven't done so already, just send me a message! (If you're a guest, reserve a spot via a review, and then you can create an account and message me if possible.)


	5. D2F: Flying Under the Radar

**Chapter Four: Flying Under the Radar**

* * *

 **Inexplicably the Same Day**

* * *

 **Galadia Devinson, District Two Female**

* * *

I am so sick of training.

It's obvious who the designated volunteer is going to be, and it sure as hell isn't me.

"Brains don't get you very far," the head trainer, Amber, had said. "It's brute strength that wins the Games for you."

Oh, how I disagree. But I can't complain, not openly with every single person who wants that one spot crowded around here.

On that mentality, Amber is going to select Iridium Blanchard, an eighteen-year-old girl with a brain about the size of a marble (and I'm being generous) as the designated volunteer. All because she's a brutal, powerful thug who could rip someone's head off just as easily as she could say hello.

Actually, scratch that. I've never heard anything come out of her other than unintelligible grunts, so maybe saying hello is more difficult for her than ripping off someone's head is.

 _Huh. Iridium is actually a good name for her, given how dense she is._

"Hey!" Someone's yelling behind me. I turn, and it's a fourteen-year-old, glaring at me.

"Can you snap out of la-la-land and let me have a turn at the spear-fighting station?" She's still miffed, but her anger softens a little once I acknowledge her presence.

"What's the magic word?" She instantly turns beet-red. It's almost comical.

She doesn't bother to respond. She grumbles something under her breath, shoves me out of the way, and grabs a spear.

That's easy enough for her to do, considering I'm about half a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter than the toughest girls, the ones everyone will gather around when they work their magic with weapons, the ones pouring their hearts and souls out for a spot.

That is not me.

That will never be me.

However, I don't give the slightest crap about who the designated volunteer is. It's going to be _my_ turn this year, and nothing's going to get in my way.

I could wait another year until I'm eighteen, and try for a spot then, but I feel like that would be defeating the purpose as to why I'm volunteering in the first place.

If I win the Games this year, I'll prove every single Academy trainer in District Two wrong. It'll show them that being smarter than the competition is just as, if not more, important than being stronger than everyone else. There's something immensely satisfying about being proven right against the opinions of that many people.

Plus, the fame and fortune that spawn from being a victor will be a nice bonus. I should know, considering I live with one.

So, instead of hanging around to wait for Amber to select Iridium as the designated volunteer, I discreetly slip out the back door, heading for a place I would rather be instead of the training facility any day of the week.

* * *

The place I stop at is not a library, but it's close enough.

I always make sure to check out a boatload of books all at once, to make sure I'm in the actual library as infrequently as possible. Not because I dislike it- the serenity is nice, it's always quiet, and it's typically almost empty- but because I don't want my parents to find me in there. They do _not_ like it when I blow off training, so I need to make sure that I don't get caught in the act.

Instead of a library, it's an abandoned house that nobody has bothered to buy or renovate for what has felt like decades. I've heard rumors that the place is haunted, which is why no one wants to buy the place or do anything with it, but I think those rumors are ridiculous. I've been using this as a sort of storage space for years, and I haven't had any paranormal encounters. At least, not yet.

I make sure no one's looking, then enter the house through the creaky front door. Then, I make sure all the shutters are still closed, and stroll through the house, taking books out of the hiding spots I place them in to make sure nobody else finds them. On top of a high cabinet, underneath the bathroom sink, underneath some hollow floorboards in the living room, stuffed inside a rusty safe that was left by the last inhabitant… the list goes on.

Then, I pull out a flashlight from another hiding place, plop down on a creaky chair behind an even creakier desk, pick a book at random from the pile, and begin reading.

I don't know what the title is. I'm too busy drinking in everything on the page to look. Sure enough, within a few minutes, I'm completely lost in literary bliss.

After what might be a couple of hours or a couple of days, I check my watch and almost fall out of my chair. Three-thirty! I told my parents I'd be home by four o'clock today!

Suppressing a sigh, I return all the books back to their proper places and dart out the door, again making sure no one is looking.

Then, I head for the house without the spring in my step I had leaving it.

* * *

Instead of strolling through town, like I do most of the time, I decide instead to take a shortcut behind some buildings to get home.

I need to present the idea to my parents as soon as possible. I'm not sure if they'll approve.

I know exactly what my mother, Valhalla, is going to think. Even though she stood behind my dad in forcing me to train from a young age, that was more for the getting in shape part of it than the Hunger Games part of it. Plus, she'd probably want me to wait the extra year- she wouldn't be able to bear it if she lost me.

But as for Slate, my father? He'd be another story. Considering the fact that he won his Games at sixteen, he'd probably be _proud_ of me for wanting to volunteer a year early. Or he might be ticked at me because I wasn't chosen to volunteer like he was.

Oh well. Who gives a crap about who gets chosen? It's not being chosen that matters, it's having the guts to volunteer.

I knock on the door, waiting for an answer. However, it's not my mother. Instead, it's my grandmother, Victoria.

"Oh, hello Galadia," she says as she beckons me inside the living room.

As Grandma closes the door behind her, I search the house for my parents. It takes way longer than it should, since the house is so big, but eventually, I find them in their lavish bedroom.

They're sitting side by side on the bed, watching some pre-Hunger Games show. I don't bother to figure out what it is. For the best shot at them accepting my proposal, I need to get straight to the point.

It takes a couple of seconds, but they eventually notice that I'm there. "Back so early, Galadia?" This coming from my mother.

"No, training ended early today. Also, didn't I tell you I'd be back at four?"

"Sorry, I forgot. What did you do in training today?"

"They picked the designated volunteer. Not much else happened."

"Was it you?" This from my father.

"Actually, no. It was Iridium Blanchard. Honestly, no surprise. She's a year older and a hell of a lot crazier than I am."

My father looks away in disappointment. "Galadia-"

Thankfully, I'm able to cut him off before he starts a long lecture about how he wishes that I'd put in the effort to be the designated volunteer.

"Dad," I say, "I think I'm going to volunteer anyway."

My mother's eyes go wide. She says nothing.

My father, however, begins frowning. "I'm not sure if that's such a good idea, Galadia. If you put in the effort next year, you'll probably get that spot on your own."

That's exactly what I _didn't_ want him to say. "And what makes you think I can't win this year?"

"First off- look in the mirror. You don't exactly look like someone who's been training day and night to compete. Second- I have experience with that."

"Experience? What do you mean by that?"

His expression softens to one of pure sadness, and he looks away from me.

"Well- you remind me a lot of my District partner that year. Smaller, cocky, volunteered a year early- the whole deal. She honestly was pretty nice once you got to know her, but being nice doesn't win fights."

"What happened to her?"

"She only made it about five minutes. An ambitious outlier- not sure who- snuck up behind her while she was grabbing supplies and cracked her skull open. Dead instantly. Didn't even flinch."

Despite the fact that I know how the Games work enough to not let that happen, I ask, "and what happened after that?"

"One of the other Careers- not me- decapitated him less than a minute later, but doing that wasn't going to bring my District partner back."

Then, he looks me directly in the eye. "If you want to volunteer, I can't stop you. Just use it as a cautionary tale. Don't end up like Uncle Tile."

"I don't plan on it," I say. Uncle Tile died in the Hunger Games two years after my father won them. He'd entered mostly for the fame of being the second victor from my grandparents' house, but had been "bumped off" by the older and stronger Careers because he just wasn't skilled enough when he entered.

Then, I hurry out of the house. I have a couple of friends that I need to say goodbye to before I leave for good.

* * *

As I exit the Victor's Village and head for the town center, I begin scanning the surroundings, looking for Eris and Valerie. It shouldn't be hard, since I've never seen the two of them separately in my life. You'd think they were conjoined twins at one point or something, but no. They're just two kids who really, _really_ like each other.

Sure enough, they're together as usual, sitting on a stone bench by the side of what passes for a road, cracking jokes about everyone who passes by. I've done that with them before, and let me tell you, it is a _great_ anger management activity.

Then, Eris notices me walking towards them and taps Valerie on the shoulder before turning to face me. "Hey, Gala? What happened to your shoes today? You throw up on them or something?"

Ironically, I find that pretty funny. That's the only type of joke those two are capable of making: a potentially offensive one.

"No, I didn't. Maybe they got the design idea from your coat!" I can match their snark levels pretty easily, which is why they like me as a friend in the first place.

Eris and Valerie stare at me for a second, but then crack up laughing. In spite of the fact that I made the second joke, I laugh along with them.

"What's up?" Valerie finally starts speaking.

"I don't know. Your shirt?"

She looks down at her (currently exposed) stomach, then cracks up laughing again.

After we all settle down, I know it's time to get serious again. "You two! I have something to tell you that's _not_ an insult disguised as a joke!"

The two of them whisper a couple of things to each other before turning to me. "Spill the beans, Gala."

"Don't worry, I brought a can," Valerie says, and produces an open can of them, dumping it on Eris' head.

"Can you guys please be serious for about five seconds? This is important!"

They both nod, even Eris, who looks ridiculous with beans still stuck in her curly blond hair. I know I need to ditch the load, now, before I make myself sound stupid.

"I'm competing in the Hunger Games this year."

Eris and Valerie look at each other, then me. They proceed to start laughing hysterically again.

"That's a great joke, Gala!" Eris says. "You, in the Hunger Games! No way."

"You totally got me!" Valerie chokes this out between giggles.

Well, that's just great.

I'm going to be fighting for my life in less than two weeks and my friends thought I told them I was competing as a joke.

So, I decide to just leave them behind to their business and head back home.

They'll find out I'm serious tomorrow, anyway.

* * *

It's late when I get back home and I don't have an appetite, so I skip dinner altogether and decide to just go to sleep.

I'm frustrated with just about everyone and everything right now. No one thinks I can win the Games. Not the trainers, not my friends, not even my own parents. It's ridiculous.

 _Don't worry,_ I tell myself, _I'll show them._

All I can do now is wait for tomorrow.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I don't have much to say this time. Thanks to Galaxy842 for Galadia.

-Next up is the D2M, created by Sparky She-Demon.

-I'm still missing the boy from 6, the girl from 7, both from 9, the girl from 10, and both from 11. Feel free to submit if you haven't already! (This is just me, but I'd prefer a couple of younger tributes- I only have two under the age of fifteen.)

-See you next chapter, and thanks for reading!


	6. D2M: Lonely Together

**Chapter Five: Lonely Together**

* * *

 **Reaping Day Minus One**

* * *

 **Godric Runestone, District Two Male**

* * *

 **AUTHOR WARNING:**

 **This POV contains both scenes of and allusions to child abuse, both present and past. If you are uncomfortable around this subject, you might want to skip this chapter entirely. Don't worry, Godric will get more chances to shine after the Reapings.**

* * *

I don't want to go home.

I wish I could just stay in the training facility until tomorrow, where I'll be alone and away from everyone and everything else.

But I have a brother to take care of. I don't get that luxury.

I've already hung around the facility for at least an hour extra than I should have, dreading the idea of going back to the endless nightmare that home represents.

My father will be rip-roaring drunk when I get home. And that's when the _real_ pain will start.

But, once more, I don't have a choice in the matter. I need to make sure that Dorian, my younger brother, stays safe, since he'll definitely be home by now. And I can't leave him alone in the house with Dad. Not after what happened the last time I tried.

So, instead of the casual walk I can usually afford on the way home, I break into a sprint, dodging the crowds in a mad dash for home.

* * *

I make it home in less than five minutes, soaked in sweat, head pounding, and heart racing.

As I hurry to the door, I knock, like my father always yells at me for not doing. Not because I agree with many of the things he says or does, but because I don't want to get into a fight with him the afternoon before I head for the Capitol.

Dad opens the door, just as drunk as I thought he would be. He reeks of booze (I honestly think only half the stuff ever gets inside of him), his eyes are unfocused. He's wearing nothing but a bathrobe and slippers, and it's pretty obvious that it isn't because he's just gotten out of bed.

However, the most notable thing about him, at least this time, is that he has a black eye, as well as a dark purple splotch on his jaw to complement it.

I don't even need to ask. "Your brother-" he adds _several_ adjectives in between those two words that I do not feel comfortable repeating- "decided the best way to solve things was by punching me," he slurs, the words piling on to each other.

Even though that's exactly the way _he_ solves most problems, I keep my mouth shut. Again, I don't want to start a fistfight.

However, I'm secretly proud of Dorian for finally standing up to him. While I turned to training for the Hunger Games to get out of the house, Dorian decided he wanted to become a Peacekeeper, and joined one of their training classes at the tender age of thirteen. He loved it, and at this rate, he'd be a full-blown Peacekeeper on his way to the Capitol at the end of the year.

The wreck that happens to be my father staggers over to the sink and peers into it, retching for a few seconds. Then, he turns to me with a plate in his hand and wild look in his eyes.

"I told you to do these yesterday!" His face has flushed tomato-red, and spit is already flying out of his mouth as he yells.

"When?" That's a legitimate question. My memory is solid for the most part, but I _never_ remember him asking me to do them.

"Yesterday!" He screams yet again, his face flushing deeper red as he calls me a long string of insults so bad, the head trainer at the training facility would probably saw off his tongue just to shut him up.

"That's not helpful." Then again, these things are the basis for nearly ninety-five percent of his episodes: he gets mad at one of us over something we either did or didn't do. Sometimes we legitimately were told and forgot, but most of the time his drunken state is causing him to imagine things. Then, Dorian and I either cower in a barricaded room or go somewhere outside the house for several hours until he's tired himself out.

A vein throbs in Dad's forehead. Then, he reaches into the sink and picks up another dish.

"I'll show you to not forget to do the dishes again!"

As he throws the first one at my head, I instinctively duck and run for the stairs. I hear the thing shatter on the wall behind me, but I don't get to see it. As I hurtle up the stairs, I can hear him screeching behind me as another plate misses about two feet above my head. However, before he can throw a third, I'm in an upstairs hallway and running for Dorian's room.

Thankfully, Dorian's already in there. Sure, he's curled up in a ball and mumbling nonsense to himself, but at least we're in the same room. However, his face clearly has fresh bruises on it.

"Wh-what's going on?" Dorian looks at me, quivering with sheer terror.

"Dad noticed I didn't do the dishes, so he decided the best way to make me remember was to throw them at me."

"O-okay, now what?"

I don't really have an answer, unfortunately. "We wait until he cools off."

Unfortunately, we're not given the opportunity to do that. Instead, I hear banging on the door, as well as Dad screaming, "Godric! I know you're in there!"

I start moving Dorian's bookcase over to barricade the door, but he stops me before I get too far. "That door's wood, it's not going to take much before he can break through it."

As if to prove his point, a fist-sized chunk of the door, right beside the knob, comes flying off as Dad's arm extends through the hole.

Before he can finish, I pull Dorian close and whisper in his ear what my new plan is. "Get something to defend yourself. We're going to get out of here. Go to the town center, maybe go for a jog, just so he can't follow us. Then, we're going to hunker down at Freya's for a while."

He nods, and slides out some of his textbooks from the bookshelf to use as rough shields. He chooses chemistry, I go for one on the history of Panem.

Meanwhile, my father has broken a large enough chunk of the door that he's managed to unlock it from the inside. The door slowly squeaks open, leaving Dad in its place, wielding two more dishes.

We book it for the door. He nearly shatters my face with the first plate, just barely giving me enough time to block it with the textbook. As we bowl him over in our escape, the other plate shatters explosively on the ground, pieces of glass nicking the backs of our legs as we run away. He tries to give chase, but steps on a piece of the plate he just dropped. His hands go to his left foot as he screeches in agony and rage, giving us enough time to bolt out the door.

Then, we cross the yard at a dead run, heading for the town center.

* * *

After thirty minutes of aimlessly wandering around the town square, we've become reasonably confident that Dad hasn't tried to follow us.

Thus, we leave the bustling town square, heading for a place that we count on as a safe house during the worst of my father's rages: the house where Freya, my long-time friend and short-time girlfriend, lives.

We walk up to her immaculate front door and knock. Both of us, just so she knows who it is.

No surprise, Freya answers the door, throwing it open with surprising speed.

"Why, hello, Sweetheart and Sweetheart Junior," she says. Then she beckons me inside.

As soon as she closes the door, however, her smile falls right off her face. "You're having issues with Xavier again?" Xavier being my father, of course.

"Every freaking day," I respond.

"Tell me again why you haven't just gotten the Peacekeepers to investigate him or something? If you ask them enough times, eventually they won't be able to say you never told them to do it."

"I already told you, my father won the Hunger Games when he was my age. No one wants to investigate him because the Capitol will be ticked off if one of their precious victors gets convicted of something. And I bet that if someone does manage to convict him, whoever it is will mysteriously vanish a few days later."

Freya's still not convinced. "You sure about that?"

"Freya, they didn't investigate when they found my mother murdered when I was little. If he can literally get away with murder, I don't think they're willing to help me out."

"How do you know it was him?"

"She was covered in stab wounds. My father's favorite weapon in his Games was a sword. Do the math."

Freya's still frowning, but at least now she seems to accept the ideas I'm pushing. "Well, you know you can stay here whenever he goes off, right? My parents are never in, they're not going to care."

In spite of everything, I manage to smile. "The only reason we're not here more often is because I don't want us to be a burden on you."

She starts smiling again. "Oh, Godric, you'll never be a burden to me! Come into the kitchen, I'll get you something to eat."

A few minutes later, she's set up plates of cheese, crackers, and orange slices for all of us alongside glasses of ice water. I don't say it, but it feels awkward to have Freya tripping all over herself to make us comfortable. Especially since she's a complete 180 from Dad.

I nibble on the food she's given us as she chatters away happily in between bites. As my stomach turns at the thought of telling her I'm leaving, she goes on and on about everything: her new job as a sculptor's assistant, her parents' little trinket shop, even the odd adventures of Mumbles, the dust-colored cat that her parents adopted before she was born.

While I wait for her to finish, I notice that Dorian's plate is empty and his chair is pushed back. Wherever he went, I have to find him, since my imminent departure will be news to him as well.

"Dorian!" I yell this down the hall as loud as I can, just to make sure he hears. "I need you with me for a second!"

After a few seconds, he sheepishly returns, carrying Mumbles in his arms. Mumbles mewls weakly and makes a half-hearted attempt to burrow into Dorian's shirt.

Once everyone's seated around the table and I've finished chewing my orange slice, I decide to say it as quickly as possible before I sound stupid. "I have to say goodbye to you guys. I go to the Capitol this year for the Games."

Freya, unbelievably, maintains her smile. Then, she hugs me tightly, making sure to squeeze every bit of air out of my lungs before letting go.

"Well, I'll be watching," she says. "Win the Games for me, won't you?"

Then I notice Dorian. He's trying to look calm and unaffected, but it's not working. It's obvious he's holding back tears, and he's starting to hunch over.

"What's going to happen to me?"

That's when the full implications of what I'm doing hit me, like a punch in the gut (or a plate in the face). If I leave, I can't protect him anymore, especially if I lose.

But, if I _win…_

"Dorian, if I win, I'm getting you out of here. You won't have to put up with Dad anymore. And even if I lose, there's always Freya, right? Plus, you'll be heading out to the Capitol with the rest of this new squad of Peacekeepers in a couple of months, anyway. Win or lose."

"Freya doesn't replace you," he sobs, "and Peacekeeping duties aren't going to either."

Now I feel terrible. But I can't back down this close to the finish line, or I'll be branded as a coward for the rest of my life.

Thankfully, Freya interrupts my train of thought, giving me a place to hide from my troubles. "Do you guys want to spend the night? It's getting late."

As I open my mouth to decline, she says, "Before you say no because of my parents, they're not here tonight. They have some kind of freaky extended shift today that I didn't even bother to ask about."

Every time I ask Freya about her parents, they're on some overlong shift at work. Considering Freya's family is _really_ well-off, I've never understood why her parents work such crazy hours.

It takes a lot of internal debating, but then I decide to cave in, just because I don't want to spend my last night in District Two with Dad. Spending it with Freya and Dorian would be about a million times better.

A few minutes later, she drags an air mattress out of the closet, which I quickly pump up while she looks for spare blankets and pillows.

As she drapes them over the mattress, I decide to finally tell her what's on my mind. "You know, you don't have to do any of this. We could just sleep on the couch."

"Of course I don't _have_ to," she replies. "I'm doing this because I _want_ to do it for you two. That's what matters."

My heart just about melts, but I manage to keep my cool as I move the mattress to a discreet place, which is inside an empty room off to the side that has no apparent use. At least, according to Freya.

Dorian is still crying a little, but less than before. "Well, let's make our last night together one to remember."

I reply quickly. "Sounds great, Dorian. Let's go, though! We're burning daylight!"

* * *

Dorian's passed out on the couch.

Freya and I have been holding each other for the past hour, and we're both so tired that we can barely move.

Freya's parents have not come home yet (despite it being nearly midnight), and Dad hasn't shown up at the door looking for us. We're silently thankful that neither of those things occurred.

The last couple of hours resembled a party of sorts. While not much happened in it- I helped Freya cook a fancy dinner for the three of us, we watched pre-Hunger Games shows together, and we talked a lot- it's still been one of the best nights of my life. (Freya even suggested we opened a bottle of wine, but thankfully, Dorian shut that down, saying that I wouldn't want to show up at the Reaping with a hangover.)

Finally, Freya lets loose a colossal yawn, and says, "I'll be there in the morning, Godric. But right now, I need some beauty sleep."

Then, she kisses me on the cheek, says, "Good night, sweetheart," and stumbles off toward her room.

I follow suit and turn off all the lights as I stagger towards the side room, Dorian in my arms.

Eventually, I'm able to set Dorian down on the mattress before climbing on myself.

As I drift off, I keep reliving the last few hours, over and over and over again. No matter what anyone else thinks, they were incredible.

All I can hope for is to win the Games and come home.

Then, all our problems will vanish, and every night can be just like this.

In that it was absolutely perfect.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Sparky She-Demon for sending in Godric. He was a little difficult to write, though.

-If you feel like I portrayed child abuse poorly, don't hesitate to PM me with suggestions on how I can fix those scenes! I've been fortunate enough to never experience any, meaning that I'm very naïve about the subject. I've read about it a little in books, but that only gets me so far.

 **-** Both spots from 9 are still open! (I don't know what it is with that District, but it's almost always the last to fill!) If you would like to submit and haven't already, just look at the form on my profile, copy it down, and PM me your tribute. First come, first served.

-Next up is the D3M, also created by Sparky She-Demon. After that comes the D10M and D4F.

-See you next chapter!


	7. D3M: Occupational Hazards

**Chapter Six: Occupational Hazards**

* * *

 **T-86400**

* * *

 **Rhaemyr North, District Three Male**

* * *

Even with the chilly wind, I'm still sweating like crazy.

Not out of actually being overheated, of course- more nervous about how the next twenty or so minutes will unfold. No matter how many times you do it successfully, pulling off a burglary is beyond stressful.

Turning on the walkie-talkie I carry with me at all times, I whisper, "Matrix! How's shutting down this security system coming along?"

Her voice comes back a few seconds later. "I have control of the thing, I just can't figure out how to shut off the burglar alarm because the interface is so confusing!"

Great. Time is of the essence in every single job we carry out. And at this rate, we'll have to leave the scene before Matrix comes even close to figuring out the interface.

Matrix, of course, is not her real name. In this business, you only give your real name to someone you know would die for you. And I doubt I'm there yet. So, we all gave each other code names that make sense to us, but will be useless in tracking the rest of us down if someone gets caught.

All of a sudden, my walkie-talkie beeps, and Matrix starts talking again. "I got the thing figured out. The back door is unlocked, just give me a minute to set the cameras on a loop of the past ten minutes and we'll be good to go."

Then, Stryker, another girl who works with us, says her piece. "Frenzy, Ghost, you get the message?"

I wait for Frenzy to confirm first, then tell her, "Yep. Loud and clear."

After a tense minute or so, Matrix pipes up again. "Everything's set. You know the drill. Get in, find stuff to steal, get out."

I'd been walking down the street a couple of blocks away, so I wouldn't be noticed, but I break into a run now, heading for where the back door to the house is.

Frenzy and Stryker are already waiting by the fence by the time I get there. They look worried, and I know exactly why. Disabling the security systems took way longer than usual, meaning we're well behind schedule right now.

 _Relax,_ I say to myself. _Something always goes wrong. If this is all that goes wrong, we're in good shape._

The fence in between me and the door is not a good climbing fence- ten feet high, made of slippery metal with only vertical bars for support- but Stryker scrambles up it like a squirrel. Then, she gives a hand in helping Frenzy over, and Frenzy does the same for me.

"Thanks," I whisper quietly as we run for the back door.

Once we reach the door, we open it slowly. For all we know, there could be a backup alarm that Matrix didn't know about and we'll need to make a break for it in a minute. Even worse, the alarm could be silent, meaning it's gone off already and we just haven't noticed. Fortunately, though, that outcome is unlikely- I've learned from experience that most people want to get in your face, not actually catch you. (I'll never know why, though.)

As we enter the house, it's clear that someone who lives here has a serious hoarding problem- this place is packed to the brim with junk. That makes me feel a little better about myself for doing this. Cleaning up the place a little would almost be a service to these people.

Most of the clutter is useless, but we do manage to find a couple of odds and ends that might have some value- Stryker's picked up a surprisingly well-kept set of pea-green vases, Frenzy's taken some reasonably clean winter clothes from an enormous bundle, and I've found a guitar that's dented, but looks functional (I don't want to put that to the test in here).

We scan the load of junk one more time to see if we can take anything else that won't be missed. Finally, we take a plastic Frisbee out of a huge stack and what appears to be a gigantic nesting doll missing a couple of layers, and add them to our bags.

However, just before we leave, I notice something sitting on top of yet another pile of junk. It's a telescope, of all things.

I've always wanted one of those.

Without thinking, I snatch the thing and manage to just barely squeeze it inside my bag. The, I hurry out the back door, making sure to close it behind me, and join Frenzy and Stryker by the fence.

"What took you so long?" This from Stryker.

"I found one more interesting thing that probably won't be missed. But let's get out of here."

Scaling the fence again, I wonder how we got in and out so easily. Jobs never work like this. There's almost always a catch.

As soon as we finish clearing the fence for the second time, we hear a sound that we hope to never hear on a job: the sound of police sirens in the distance.

Well, there's the catch. I guess this place _did_ have a backup alarm that none of us noticed.

"Cops! Come on, let's blow this joint!" I whisper this as loud as possible into the walkie-talkie, but it's a pointless statement. By the time I finish my sentence, I'm talking to air.

I pick a direction at random and begin hurrying away from the sirens, but I know it's only a matter of time before they catch up. Then, we'll all be irreparably screwed.

A couple of blocks later, I start feeling lightheaded, but I don't slow down. I can't stop, not until I've put as much distance as possible between myself and the job site as possible.

My head pounds furiously. My heart pounds even harder. My back begins to hurt. But I still don't stop.

Finally, after a few minutes, the sound of the sirens begin to fade. I risk looking back, and I notice that the police cars aren't continuing on; they're all clustered around the house. It seems that they're more interested in learning what happened than figuring out who or what caused it.

 _Works for me,_ I think as I leave the noise and flashing lights behind, trying to ignore the fact that we might all be caught in a few hours.

* * *

Finally, after alternating between jogging and walking for several hours, I finally arrive at the abandoned warehouse that serves as a substitute for home.

Someone inside clearly sees me, and gives me the prompt: "Who are you and why are you on my property?"

I immediately give my "password response," as everyone calls it, to let them know it's me. "I'm Harold Wilkins, from the electric company. I'm here to fix the wires."

"You can come in," replies the voice. Then, I hear the sound of multiple locks unlatching before the battered front door swings open.

I'm greeted to near-total darkness. Despite my response, the building that acts as both a storage space and a place to live lacks electricity. There's some moonlight shining through the one open window, and a candle is lit on the metal table we put together out of scrap parts from the junkyard, but they don't do much.

Discord, the girl who acts as our sort of housekeeper- she does a lot of the maintenance the place needs while we're away- leads me to a chair that has a couple of cans placed on it. "That's your dinner ration. Enjoy."

Tonight, it's chicken in water and canned green beans. Not exactly the finest meal on earth, but it sure is filling. Once both cans are scraped clean, I toss them into the old bin that serves to store the recycling.

"I got rid of the last load of stuff," Discord informs me, referring to the goods we managed to snag on our last job. "Sold it off to a secondhand store after I was done modifying it to be unrecognizable. Got enough money that I can buy food and candles that'll last until things cool down from this job."

Well, that's good news. Except for her, the rest of us rarely leave the warehouse except for carrying out jobs and to move to the safe house we're not currently in, which, as of now, is a shack sitting on a vacant lot across town.

"Is everyone here?"

"Matrix got here well before you did, from what I heard she left the scene immediately after she thought she disabled the burglar alarm. Stryker got here about an hour ago. Frenzy isn't here, but when I tried to communicate with him about half an hour ago, he said he was waiting at the other safe house and he'd be here tomorrow morning."

"Well, OK then. Does Stryker need to talk to me about anything?" Stryker does most of the planning for these jobs, having been doing this since she was six. We just help her on the execution.

Discord shakes her head. "Nope. We can't plan anything around tomorrow anyway, tomorrow's Reaping Day."

Well, crap. Reaping Day is always a wasted day for us- we're all required to be crowded together and wait for the mayor to finish his (overly long) speeches before sending two people off to die.

Thankfully, my chances of being picked are still pretty low, despite being seventeen and technically homeless. We do get tesserae every year, but we rarely ever use it, so we only get one per year. Rotating who takes it each year helps keep our odds relatively low. This year, it's my turn, considering I'm the oldest besides Stryker and she took the tesserae for us last year.

 _Relax,_ I tell myself, _one extra slip isn't going to change anything. I'll have almost exactly the same odds as last time._

Finally, despite the fact that Stryker has nothing important to talk to me about, I decide to go see her anyway. There are a couple of things I want to say to her before tomorrow.

* * *

Stryker's sitting on the mattress she shares with Matrix when I find her.

There aren't any candles nearby, but her eyes are so bright and vibrant that she's pretty easy to spot, even in darkness.

"Ghost," she says, "Anything you want to say, or are you just going to stare at me?"

"That was a close call."

"Of course it was," she says, nodding like crazy while she says it. "We usually don't get cops on our tail, but when we do, they're so annoying."

"You can say that again."

I plop down next to her on the mattress, grateful for a place to sit.

"So? You have any ideas where the next job should be?"

I frown. I was supposed to be scouting some neighborhoods for sites that looked easy to infiltrate last week, but I must have forgotten or something. Either way, I have no idea where we're even supposed to be.

Still, best to be honest with Stryker. "No clue."

She starts scowling, but holds it back. "Oh well. Again, tomorrow's going to be pretty much a waste otherwise. We can walk through those neighborhoods then and figure it out from there."

Matrix pops into the room. "Guys! Just got an update from Frenzy!"

Stryker pops up like a jack-in-the-box on steroids. "What did he say?"

"He's saying that they haven't searched the shack yet, but the whole area around that house we hit today is crawling with cops. He doesn't want to risk trying to go through town to get to us, so he's headed for the woods and probably won't be back anytime soon."

Stryker stares off into the distance for a few seconds before she responds. "That's fine, just tell him to send messages as frequently as possible so we know he didn't get snatched or something."

"Got it." Matrix bolts from the table towards her walkie-talkie and whispers some breathless words into it that I can't quite make out. Then, she shuts off the walkie-talkie.

"I'm sorry, guys, but it's late, I'm going to bed," Matrix says. She puts out the candle before staggering over to her mattress and practically falling on top of it.

Stryker follows suit a minute later, trying not to land on top of Matrix as she crashes onto the other side of their mattress. Finally, I give up on trying to stay awake, and head for the mattress I usually share with Frenzy, nearly tripping and falling on my face several times on the way there.

But I make it anyway, sitting down on the mattress that seems much emptier without Frenzy's body sprawled over the other half.

I'm worried about Frenzy's safety, and it refuses to exit my mind even after I begin to nod off, but eventually, I fade away with one lingering thought remaining:

 _Well, everything should be normal after tomorrow._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Sparky She-Demon, once again, for sending in Rhaemyr. Coming up next is his last tribute, the D10M.

-Thanks to everyone for bearing with me until I could finish the chapter. School just wrapped up for winter break, so I should have more time to write for the next week or two. Expect at least one and possibly two tributes to come out before New Year's.

-After the D10M comes the D4F, D4M, and D3F. Those will be the next four chapters.

-We're a quarter of the way through the tributes! Six down, eighteen to go.

-Merry Christmas to all!

-See you next chapter!


	8. D10M: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

**Chapter Seven: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...**

* * *

 **Unsurprisingly, Not Reaping Day Yet**

* * *

 **Faolan Drover, District Ten Male**

* * *

If you've never had to clean out a pig trough before, consider yourself lucky.

Trust me on this one. The stuff my parents feed the pigs on, mainly leftover food (usually not in the best condition), isn't that pretty. And that's _before_ the pigs are done with it. Needless to say, they're not the cleanest eaters.

Unfortunately, I drew the short straw today, so while my two older brothers (and my father's numerous helpers) are engaged in other work around the farm, I'm scraping the leftovers from the pigs' lunches into a compost bin for later.

Once _that_ is finished, I hustle out to the barnyard, where my older brothers, Dougall and Naoise, are struggling to move bales of hay inside before it starts to rain.

Once they notice I'm there, I give them the heads up. "I can help you guys!"

"Sure thing, just stay away from the big pile, we got that!" They say this almost simultaneously.

For those of you who don't know, hay is _much_ heavier than it looks. Even though I'm in shape, it's a struggle to life each bale, stumble into the barnyard with it on my shoulder, and add it to the increasingly big pile in a fenced-off area.

Half an hour later, that's finished, but it's thundering _really_ loud now. Chances are, we're in for a major storm, which makes sense considering it's the middle of June and about ninety degrees out.

Sure enough, it starts pouring the instant I step outside to take a look. Thankfully, my brothers have already routed most of the animals into the barn, leaving only a couple of cows out in the rain. I can deal with those.

Cows are easy to herd, but getting them out of the rain is a nightmare, because most of the time you're required to get them back _in_ the rain before they can get dry. And let me tell you, they do _not_ like getting wet. Bringing out some grass and corn helps, but even a food reward out only gets you so far.

It takes what feels like forever, but I finally manage to get every last cow inside, and take shelter in the barn for a few minutes to dry off before running for the house.

Once I hustle through the back door and slam it closed, I head towards the kitchen to make some lunch for myself. However, when I enter, my father's already beat everyone to it. Instead of the usual simple meals we all make ourselves, a very fancy meal is laid out before us.

"Dad, why did you make all this?"

"Isn't today Reaping Day?"

"No, Dad, that's tomorrow," Dougall corrects him.

The smile he was wearing like a mask falls right off his face. "Oh- dammit," he chokes out. "If I'd known it wasn't today I wouldn't have made all this stuff." Thankfully, after he regains his composure, he says, "Oh well, then. Let's not let it go to waste."

He calls in all the ranch hands, who all take a plateful, before he serves all four of us- Dougall, Naoise, me, and my _really_ little brother, Ruarc (eleven years younger than I am), my mother, and finally, himself. The food in front of me is absolutely delicious, and it's gone before I know it. Everyone else seems to be experiencing the same thing, as the rush for seconds before everything is gone nearly causes a stampede.

It only takes a few minutes for every plate in the kitchen to be scraped clean of food. However, that's not done before everyone here has their stomach replaced with a swollen lump.

Since everyone's stopped chowing down, my father taps his fork on the side of his glass to get everyone's attention. "Well, with this rain, we're probably confined to doing indoor work for the rest of the day. How about re-painting the walls inside this afternoon?"

Honestly, I'm thrilled that that's all he asked of us. Considering that's easier than about 95% of the things that I have to do daily, we've essentially been given free passes.

Ruarc runs down to the basement, and comes out with several containers of paint- most of them brown (since most of our house has brown walls, obviously) as well as a blue one (for my parents' room) and a green one (for the room I share with my siblings).

Naoise must have slipped off at some point without me noticing, but he's tailing Ruarc now, carrying numerous large paintbrushes.

"Okay, everyone," my father says, "Let's do this!"

The next couple of hours go by fast. First, all of us drag all the furniture into the center of every room so that none of it ends up with paint stains. Unfortunately, the furniture is really heavy, especially the beds, so much so that even though everyone here is in pretty excellent shape, it takes two and sometimes even three of us to even get the furniture to inch across the floor for the few feet we need it to.

Then, the next couple of hours go by fast- lots of climbing up and down ladders to reach areas that would be impossible to get to otherwise, as well as hurrying from room to room to help anyone who needs it, moving cans of paint quickly from room to room ("Not too quickly, or you'll spill the paint all over the floor!"), and finally just moving all that furniture back to where it was supposed to be in the first place.

By the time that's done, my worn-out clothes are a stained mess (I'm not the best artist) and all of us are drenched in way more sweat than anyone believes we should be, but the house looks better than ever.

After that's done, the rain's slacked off, and the sun is sinking lower in the sky even though sunset is still pretty far away. However, my father's turned to all our helpers.

"Okay, everyone! Your shift is over! Thanks for helping out today. Because tomorrow's Reaping Day, everyone gets tomorrow off. That includes you, Bovina!" Bovina is my father's most dedicated worker- she shows up every single day, without fail, including holidays. While I wonder how few outside attachments she must have in order to be able to sink every single day into her job, I've never asked her about it, mostly because being rude and invasive is not my style.

All the helpers wander off, heading back to wherever they came from. That leaves the six of us- Mom, Dad, me, and my siblings- standing in the middle of a freshly re-painted kitchen.

"Well, why don't we all make dinner?" This comes from my mother, which makes sense, especially since she didn't eat fast enough to get seconds at lunch.

"Sure thing."

In half an hour, we have a modest but tasty meal laid out in front of us- grilled chicken and carrot slices with fresh milk. Needless to say, it's gone rather quickly, especially since there wasn't that much to begin with.

Once Mom is finished with her meal, she makes a suggestion. "Well, after we get all the basic chores out of the way, why don't we go swimming tonight at the lake?"

Everyone nods emphatically, except for Ruarc. "It's too dark for me."

"Ruarc, you don't have to come! Mom's just saying that we can do something fun after we're done with the chores," Dougall adds.

"Can we get some friends?" Naoise asks this quickly.

"I don't see why not," Dad replies. "Do the chores, _then_ get them. As long as you keep to that, you can bring whoever you want, within reason."

Trust me, I've never seen the chores finished so fast. Or frankly, so effectively.

As soon as _that's_ over, all of us are running in a different direction, ready to collect our various friends.

* * *

It takes almost fifteen minutes for me to reach town.

Considering we live almost two miles outside of the town proper, that meant I actually made good time getting there, too. Due to the size of our property, we're a long way away from our nearest neighbors.

However, my best friends, Amaia and Ciro, probably shouldn't be too hard to find. Their parents work together at a meat-processing plant, and they got jobs there last year. From what I remember, their shift ends in a few minutes, so they could be ready to go for a swim as soon as they leave.

So, I wait on the side of the dirt road, waiting patiently for doors to open.

When they do, a stream of people pours out, most of them wearing the same stained aprons and gloves. However, Amai and Ciro are easy to spot, being they types that wait out the initial rush before leaving.

"Guys! Over here!" I yell this as loud as I can, causing a couple of people nearby to stare at me angrily.

However, it succeeds in catching their attention. "Faolan! What brings you here?"

"We're all going swimming, you guys want to come?"

Their faces immediately light up. "Sure thing! Just give us a couple of minutes to change out of this stuff, and I'll be good to go!" They say this with near-perfect sync that's almost unnerving.

I wait a few more minutes while they clean themselves off, and am soon greeted to the noise of them both running out to meet me.

"Race you to the lake!" Amaia immediately yells this out as she books it down the road.

"You are SO going to lose!" Ciro immediately hurries after her.

"Hey, guys, wait up!" Finally, I hustle after the two of them.

The race is very tiring, especially since I've already run all the way to town. Four miles at top speed is not exactly easy, you know. I don't beat Amaia or Ciro into the lake, either. Instead, Ciro pulls ahead at the last second and hits the water an instant before Amaia, while I come to a stop right before the edge of the lonesome dock we built a couple of years ago.

"I win!" Ciro yells this out as soon as he resurfaces.

Amaia playfully splashes lake water in his face, and then swims away shrieking as Ciro chases her, trying to get her even more soaked then she already is.

"Well, better make sure they don't drown each other," I say to no one. Then, I dive head-first into the water.

The lake is chillier than you would expect, since it's summer, but it's enjoyable. It gets _really_ hot outside during this time of year, hence why the lake is such a prized possession of ours.

However, it's pretty small. Small enough that I could probably swim from one end to the other if I tried it. However, most of the lake is so deep that drowning is a very real possibility, and it didn't exactly come with lifeguards. So, for the most part, everyone sticks close to shore.

It's a beautiful night despite how terrible the afternoon weather was- almost no clouds, a huge, luminous moon shining down, framed perfectly by dozens of stars.

"Nice weather, huh?" I toss this at Dougall as he swims past.

"Really? I haven't noticed," he replies, harmless sarcasm dripping from his voice. Within a matter of seconds, he's far enough away I'd have to shout to have him hear me.

As the moon climbs higher and higher in the sky, the party begins to tucker out. Ruarc climbs out first (no surprise there) and after drying himself off with one of the towels we'd brought out, Mom takes him back home to get some sleep. Naoise's girlfriend, Paola, wanders off toward where she came from, still dripping a little even after scrubbing herself with a towel. People begin to leave in a steady stream. Eventually, even Ciro and Amaia signal to me that it's time for them to leave.

"We have the early shift tomorrow at the meat processing plant," Amaia explained. "We don't want to wake up late for it."

At that, the two of them swam back to the dock, pulled themselves out, and staggered back towards the road (after drying themselves off, of course).

A few minutes later, everyone left seems to simultaneously decide that they've been in the water long enough for one night. All of us swim to either shore or the dock, pull ourselves out of the chilly water, and rotate the towels around so that nobody goes to bed soaking wet.

It feels like forever before we get back in the house, but it really can't have been any longer than ten minutes. However, as soon as everyone's back, we stagger off to bed, so tired we can barely keep our eyes open.

I'm the last one back to our room. All of my brothers are already sprawled out on their mattresses in various poses, some of them not even bothering to pull the covers over themselves.

However, I at least manage to do that before I pass out. Sprawled on the bed, I only have one thought in my head:

 _Well, that ends another typical day. Hopefully tomorrow is just as normal._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry this took so long to get out. I just got slammed with way more homework over the holiday's than I'm used to, which didn't leave too much time for writing. However, I'm happy I got it done before school started back up.

-Thanks, once again, to Sparky She-Demon for Faolan.

-Next up is the D4F. After that, the next three tributes will be the D4M, D3F, and D8M.

-See you guys again next chapter!


	9. D4F: History (Almost) Repeats Itself

**Chapter Eight: History (Almost) Repeats Itself**

* * *

 **Reaping Day Imminent**

* * *

 **Sienna Starboard, District Four Female**

* * *

Twenty hours.

That's all I have left before I'm supposed to raise my hand, become known to the world, and be dragged to the Capitol to compete in their precious Hunger Games.

I know I shouldn't be nervous anymore, considering how long I've trained for this. I still am.

However, twenty hours is still quite a long time, if you think about it. So, right now, I'm lying down on a sandbar I frequent, soaking up some sun and trying to figure out how I'm going to survive for the next few weeks.

I can do that in peace here. This sandbar is usually empty because I'm one of the few who risks swimming to it. The only way to get here without the drowning risk is with a boat, and if you're in a boat, you can go to locations far more interesting than here.

As I sit up, I notice two figures standing on the beach I swam from, which is odd. People almost never come to this beach because it's well off the beaten path and lacks lifeguards. (Even though our district is known for swimming, drowning is a more common cause of death here than one would think.)

As I keep watching, I notice the two of them diving into the rough surf and disappearing underwater. No surfboards, no boogie boards, not even any goggles.

Okay, now I'm starting to feel really nervous. The currents are so strong swimming is difficult here, and I don't want to watch people drown in front of me.

However, it turns out my worries are baseless. Both of them surface a couple of yards from the sandbar, and, as luck would have it, I know both of them. The one on the left is Arethusa, the head girls' trainer at the training facility, and the other one is my twin sister, Sirena.

After the two of them clamber onto the sandbar and shake the water and seaweed out of their hair, Sirena begins to talk.

"I figured you'd be out here."

Arethusa is currently showing no emotion whatsoever. "Don't blame me, Sirena was the one who led me here."

Well, that makes sense. Sirena was the only person I'd ever told about my excursions to the sandbar, but her telling Arethusa wasn't out of the question.

"So, you ready to volunteer tomorrow?" This coming from Arethusa, as she'd nominated me as the designated volunteer less than two hours ago.

Even though I'm sweating (which has nothing to do with the temperature) and my stomach is currently performing some backflips, I try to mask my fear the best I can. "Of course! Why wouldn't I be? I've been training my whole life for this!"

Arethusa smiles. "That's my girl!"

Sirena is getting a little teary-eyed. "I always knew you could do it."

"Well, you could, so clearly I can!"

Sirena, crazy as it seems, won the Hunger Games all of two years ago. We both trained hard that year, each of us trying to edge the other for the top spot. However, it ended up coming down to a coin flip, which Sirena won.

They're both so happy that I don't dare telling them my real feelings about going into the Games. Instead, I try to start up a new topic.

"Want to swim back and have some fun before it's time to go?"

Sirena nods. "I don't see why not."

At that, we sprint back into the water and begin swimming hard for the beach.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, we're out of the water, dry, and on an actual path again.

"So, what first?" Arethusa clearly wants to get a move on, and fast.

"I don't know. Fishing, maybe?"

"Sure! Let's hit the dock!" Sirena's already running down the road.

The two of us remaining look at each other for the briefest of moments, then we sprint to follow her.

A couple minutes (and about half a mile) later, we arrive at the dock, which serves as a hub of sorts for the town. Families are sitting on the edges, casting lines into the water. The outdoor seafood restaurant nearby is busy, serving up some truly spectacular dishes. Shops line the area nearby, selling anything and everything that people think will turn a profit for the day.

As expected, there's a long line stretching away from the dock. The place is always crowded, meaning there's often a line just to go fish somewhere. And don't even get me started about the wait times for that seafood restaurant during the summer.

It would normally be about a thirty-minute wait for a spot if I was here alone. However, the person running the line sees Sirena with us, and goes pale as a sheet.

"Uh, you guys can move to the front if you want," she says, pointing at us.

I'm struggling to form coherent words right now. All that manages to get out is "It's OK, we can wait-"

"No, I insist!"

Everyone else in line groans a little, but I don't want to make a scene over it, either. So we shuffle to the front of the line, more than a little embarrassed.

Stuff like this happening is totally normal. Since my sister won the Games, everyone goes out of their way to treat her (and anyone with her) like royalty. She doesn't exactly like it, but at least she's gotten used to it after two years. (And I've kind of gotten used to it, too, since people confuse the two of us _all the freaking time._ )

After a couple of minutes, a family (a mom, a dad, and two little kids) pack up their gear and leave their spot open, giving us room to fish, or at least try to if the area isn't already picked clean.

Sirena and I toss our lines into the water at nearly the exact same place at nearly the exact same time. As soon as she notices this, she gets a cocky smile on her face. "Bet I can catch something first!"

"No way! I will _so_ beat you."

Arethusa's smiling as well. "Not if I can help it!" Then, she grabs a rod of her own and expertly casts it much further than either of our lines.

All of us quietly sit down, waiting for one of us to feel the jerk that suggests we've caught something. It takes quite some time, but something will always bite if you wait long enough.

I feel it first. "Got something!" Hurriedly, I begin to try to reel the thing in.

Sirena gets the same feeling about two seconds later. "Me too!"

For just those precious few seconds, both of us are engaged in a mad race to try and pull our fish out of the water first. Arethusa's paying such close attention to us that she doesn't even notice when her own fishing rod jerks, nearly pulling her into the ocean.

My hands are sore from cranking. Sirena's probably are as well. But I won't stop until I get that fish. I can only assume she's thinking the same way.

And it ends almost as quickly as it started. Both of us pull a near-identical fish out of the water at exactly the same time (or at least close enough that neither of us can tell the difference). However, Arethusa has a sharper eye than either of us, so we turn to her for the winner.

She shrugs her head as best she can while trying to reel in the fish snared on her own line. "Too close to call."

Then, she pulls back hard, the muscles in her arms bulging as she tries to pull in her own catch. Whatever's on the other end of her line is clearly fighting hard, evidenced by the fact that she's walking backwards just to hold her position as she turns the crank.

Soon enough, however, she pulls up the thing, panting heavily. And based on the sheer size of the fish she just caught, we can see why.

"I think I'm the _real_ winner here, guys!" She breaks out into laughter.

Sirena's laughing, too. "That was fun! But we should probably wrap up and go eat dinner. It's starting to get dark out."

Arethusa points to the fish on her hook. "You know he have enough for dinner right here, right?"

Thankfully, Sirena objects before I have the chance to. "Sure, it's enough to eat, but I'm pretty confident neither of us want to get food poisoning the day before we head to the Capitol. Right, Sienna?"

"I agree," I reply. Unfortunately, that's based from experience. The day before Sirena's first trip to the Capitol, we tried to celebrate by eating something I'd caught that afternoon for dinner. However, we quickly realized that we should've left actually cleaning the fish to the seafood restaurants that night after both of us had to wake up several times to rush to the bathroom and puke up everything in our stomachs. And let me tell you, Reaping Day must have been a blast for Sirena. Nothing like introducing yourself to the entire nation only a couple of hours after being hunched over the toilet, puking your guts out, feeling like you were about to die.

Sirena, thankfully, has an alternative. "Maybe that tiny seafood place a couple of blocks from the training facility?"

Arethusa sighs, but drops the flopping, spasming fish back into the ocean to let it swim away. "Sounds good."

We pack up our stuff, then Sirena takes her share and breaks into a dead run for the house to take a shower. Arethusa and I follow her, as we both need showers ourselves after that hard run.

However, when Sirena breaks into a sprint again after she gets out of the shower, we wonder what her rush could possibly be.

* * *

After our showers, Arethusa and I quickly arrive at the restaurant, simply named _Catch of the Day._

When we look inside, the restaurant is empty, but that's no surprise.

Despite how much Arethusa, Sirena and I love this place, we seem to be the only fans of it. Maybe it's the sparse decor, or possibly the fact that it's extremely cramped (even when no one's actually there), or it could even be that they just prefer to play it safe with the much bigger restaurants by the dock. However, none of that matters.

What _does_ matter is that this place serves some of the most delicious things a person could ever eat. All three of us can attest to that fact.

As soon as we've come through the entryway- ducking a bit to avoid hitting our heads- the one waitress at the place notices us. "Well well well, if it isn't two of my favorite customers!"

Both of us smile as I try to get everything settled. "We'd like a table for three, please. My sister will be here any-"

"Hold up!" A voice yells from outside the restaurant. A second later, Sirena steps in with a girl I don't recognize. "Make that a table for four, please."

"Sure thing!" She directs us to a back table, right underneath a tinted skylight, and quickly takes our order (since there's no one else in the restaurant). "For you three, I'll assume the same thing as usual, right?" As we nod, she turns to the girl Sienna brought with her. "And what would you like, miss?"

She looks nervous, but comes to a fairly quick decision. "I'll just have what she's having," she says, pointing to Sirena.

The waiter scribbles down our order on a sheet of paper, and puts it on the empty ticket line so the cook can work his magic.

Arethusa turns to Sirena. "Who's your friend?"

Sirena twitches in place for a couple of seconds, but manages to choke out some words. "This is Kylie." She pauses for the tiniest of moments. "My girlfriend," she elaborates.

It takes a second for the full meaning to sink in for me. "Wait, you mean your _girlfriend_ girlfriend? As in-"

"Yes, Sienna," she says, cutting me off, "We're dating."

"Cool," is all I can reply.

Soon enough, all conversation stops as the waitress passes out our orders and heads back into the kitchen, leaving us with heaping plates of food to devour.

Needless to say, it's gone pretty quickly after it's put in front of us. Even Kylie, who seems to have never been here before, wolfs down her food just as fast as the rest of us.

"I'll deal with the bill," Sirena says. "You guys can head out."

We heed her advice, and walk out of the restaurant back to where the dock is. It's completely dark outside, but our way home is still lit thanks to the streetlights that periodically light up the road.

Sirena comes out, and that prompts both Arethusa and Kylie to say their goodbyes.

"Sorry, Sirena. I wish I could stay longer, but I've already been away from home all day, I have a family who wants to see me," Arethusa says.

"I have a class tomorrow, I need some sleep," Kylie says.

Then, both of them hurry off in the opposite direction. This is only interrupted by Arethusa yelling "See you at the Reapings, Sienna!" Then, they both disappear into the night.

Well, crap. Arethusa's comment just pointed out the downside of all this: I have to volunteer for the Games tomorrow.

But I try to force that out of my head on the walk home.

* * *

When we get home, Sirena holds the door for me so I can get in, then she stumbles along after me.

Even though Sirena has a Victor's Village home set aside for her when she's ready, she doesn't live there yet. She says she'll move in once I compete so that we'll still be living near each other if (although this is a _when_ for Sirena) I win the Games.

As I throw open the door of the house, no one's home, no surprise. My parents work as sailors, so, big shock, they're out on the water most of the time, not at home.

"Are Mom and Dad coming tomorrow for Reaping Day?" I say this mostly because I want to see them one last time before I leave.

"Yes, they are. They called me while I was getting Kylie. They said they'll be home tomorrow morning. That leaves plenty of time before the Reapings."

"That's great," I say as I trudge upstairs to our room, so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. Collapsing into what I hope is my bed, I wait for Sirena to inevitably follow my example.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for Sirena to admit how tired she is. She staggers in after me and sits down on the end of the other bed, turning off the light on the way in.

"Good night, Sienna," she says as she crawls into bed and starts snoring softly.

Even though she's already asleep, I say one more thing anyway, for what might be the last time.

"Good night, Sirena."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Wow, we have a high portion of legacy careers in this one. Three out of five so far!

-Thanks to goldie031 for Sienna.

-Eight tributes down, sixteen to go. Two-thirds of the tributes remain! Up next, the D4M.

-Finally, I'm running out of creative ways to say "One Day Before Reapings." If anyone would like to PM me any suggestions, feel free to do so!

-See you all next chapter!


	10. D4M: Family Matters

**Chapter Nine: Family Matters**

* * *

 **The Reaping's Day Before Tomorrow**

* * *

 **Vick Even, District Four Male**

* * *

My neck is still cramped from sleeping on that cot the hospital provided.

Sure, it's better than sleeping on the floor or in a chair (I know that firsthand), but the cot is only slightly softer than the floor and is _very_ scratchy. Plus, after about a couple of hours of lying down on it that first night, it became _really_ evident that thing had never been washed.

I can't exactly toss it into a laundry machine (it's too bulky to fit through the opening) so my best bet is to scrub it down with water and some of the cheap cleaner the hospital uses so I can at least mask the smell a little.

But, I'll have to do that later. My work shift starts any minute and I would like to see Mom before I clock in.

I fold up my cot and stow it away in the empty storage closet that serves as the place I sleep, then step out into the hospital.

It looks the same as always. The entire hospital seems to have tried to stick to shades of color that are as inoffensive as possible, and they've succeeded at that. Nearly every surface consists of the same dull white-and-brown color palette, the only interruptions being flower pots placed at irregular intervals throughout the halls and navigational signs that are a blaring shade of red.

Following the signs down one monotonous hall after another, I eventually find my way to the stairs. Two flights of stairs later (yes, this hospital is enormous- it's meant to serve the entire District) I hurry through several more, equally monotonous halls until I reach the room my mother is confined to.

However, before I can step into the room, a doctor waiting outside stops me. "Now's not a good time, she's still asleep and trying to recover from yesterday's radiation treatment."

"Well, okay then."

So, I turn back down the hall, hustling for the receptionist's desk so I can clock in for my shift.

This isn't Mom's first trip to the hospital. She'd thought that the worst of her bout with cancer was over once she left the hospital the first time, but she, unfortunately, was dead wrong. Less than a year later, it came back far worse than before, meaning she had to check in to the hospital again. And the doctors have been saying without advanced Capitol treatment techniques and medicines (which are way too expensive for us to afford) she probably has just a few months left.

Which brings me to why I'm here. Due to my, as the manager called it, "special circumstances" (because of course there's something special about having a mother with cancer and constantly having to worry about whether or not she'll live to see tomorrow) we managed to work out a deal: If I worked a four-hour shift after school every day (eight hours whenever school was out) I'd essentially get room and board- three meals and a place to sleep, and whatever was left would cover some medical care for Mom.

Since we'd already had to sell our house to pay for Mom's first round of treatment and therapy, I agreed. So far, even though I have a strong dislike of my job, at least it means that I'm not hungry and Mom has at least a little bit of extra time with me. Even if it means I've had to live in the hospital for the past three months.

Eventually, I reach the desk, knocking me out of my stupor, and quietly check myself into work, grabbing my uniform from a back corner on the way out.

Hooray. Since I haven't yet qualified to actually be a doctor or a nurse (even though neither are exactly on the list of things I'd like to do with my life) I get to spend the next eight hours cleaning the hospital.

One long, monotonous shift looms before me. But I can _probably_ make it to the end without suddenly dying from boredom.

I've handled it for two months now. I can make it one more day.

* * *

Finally, it's twelve o'clock.

That time means nothing for most of my co-workers other than the start of a new hour, but for me, I finally get my lunch break.

As soon as I clock out again, I hustle to the doorway, cross the hospital's courtyard, and quickly arrive at the hospital cafeteria, hustling to the end of the line waiting to order.

Everyone in front of me on the line for food takes freaking _forever_ to figure out what to eat. By the time I finally make my way to the front of the line, well over half my break has passed.

The cashier nods in acknowledgement. "Oh. It's you, Vick. Just hand me your card, I assume you want the same thing as last time." Once I'd agreed to the deal, the hospital had paid for a machine from District Three that would subtract whatever I bought from my wages without them actually having to do any math. (Solving math equations is not very high on their list of priorities.)

Two minutes later, I receive a slice of our District's signature light green bread, half a bowl of tuna salad, and a tiny portion of mixed vegetables, alongside a glass of ice water.

Silently, I wolf the whole thing down, but then I have to get back to work. Ironically enough, the second half of my day will be spent working cleaning the cafeteria, occasionally stopping to work the cash register.

All I can think is, _four hours down, four to go_.

* * *

After a painfully slow four hours, I can finally clock out for the day.

Aside from one unpleasant incident that occurred when some seven-year-old visitor ate _way_ too much of the hospital's crappy clam chowder (which I swear is just a disguised paint-and-glue mix) I've already forgotten everything that happened when I was in that cramped, airless room.

Now, after being on the clock from eight all the way through four-thirty, I _finally_ have the chance to see my mother (in other words, the _exact freaking reason_ I chose to essentially live in the hospital in the first place).

This isn't as familiar an area as you think it'd be for me, so it takes me a few minutes to find a hall I recognize, after which I just follow my usual path to Mom's room.

This time, there isn't a doctor standing there warning me that she's being exposed to radiation, so I just assume it's safe to walk in. Unfortunately, while it's _technically_ safe to do that, what I see once I get inside isn't pretty.

Mom's lying on her elevated cot in an awkward pose, connected to a heart monitor and an IV via thin tubes attached to her left arm. Her pillow has bile stains on it that refuse to come out no matter how much the doctors scrub it (her memoir of the first and only time she tried the clam chowder). What little hair she has left is limp and greasy, her eyes appear to be sinking into her head, and her lips are dry and cracked. Not to mention, she's squinting badly just so she can see, due to the hospital's mind-numbing decision to have her bed be in a place where the one tiny window shines sunlight directly in her eyes about 80% of the time.

With visible effort, she turns her head to face me. "Hello, my dear."

"Hey, Mom. You feeling any better?"

She nods, almost imperceptibly. "At least… at least a little better than usual."

When it comes to how Mom is feeling, _better_ is a very subjective term. I don't know how she can still see the positive in so many things- I probably would had folded by now if I knew I had a possibly terminal disease like she does.

"Do you need anything? Food? Water? More pillows?"

"I'm fine with just the one pillow. And the last time I tried to eat I got sick. I think I just need some rest."

"Okay, then. I'll let you sleep," I say, quickly stepping out of her room and closing the door behind me.

As soon as I'm back in the hallway, I only make it about two steps before a doctor runs into me. Almost literally.

"Vick, your… friend is calling again," she says, before slapping the phone down into my hand and running off towards their next duty.

Sure enough, I put the phone to my ear, and hear a voice belonging to my friend, Aqua. "Hello? Vick? That you?"

"Aqua, how many times do I have to tell you? There's a separate phone in Mom's hospital room, you don't have to call the hospital!"

She responds. "Well, you keep forgetting to tell me this mystery number, so I wonder whose fault that is?"

I roll my eyes, even though she can't see me do it. "Whatever. What are you calling me for?"

"I just wanted to come see you! Relax!"

"I have a mother who's basically on her deathbed right now! Last time I checked, I'm confident that something like that going on makes it _very_ hard for a person to relax!"

"Okay, okay, slow your roll. I'm assuming you're sort of stuck at the hospital?"

I haven't left the hospital in a couple of months. The last time I did, Mom went into critical condition and almost died in the hour I was gone. Thankfully, doctors were able to stabilize her heart rate, or she could have had a heart attack, or gone into cardiac arrest, or something like that. When I'd come back, I didn't even know anything had happened until the next day.

I desperately don't want a repeat of that, so my only outside time is now spent in the hospital courtyard.

"Yes, I'm still stuck there. And how long are you planning on seeing me for?"

"I don't know. An hour? Maybe an hour and a half?"

"In that case, bring some money with you to get dinner. And remember to not get the clam chowder!"

I hear a pause on the other end. "Done and done. Hospital courtyard, half hour?"

"Sounds like a plan."

The line immediately goes dead.

Well, at least I could get _some_ enjoyment out of today once Aqua comes over.

* * *

Sitting down on a bench in the courtyard, I see Aqua running into the entrance before she sees me.

As soon as she enters, I check the clock. It's almost exactly a half hour after that phone call ended.

I almost allow myself to smile, but stifle it quickly. It's not like Aqua doesn't come with some problems of her own, but her punctuality is not one of them.

As soon as she sees me, she waves merrily, then darts over like she's just caught fire.

"Hey, Vick! How's life going?"

Aqua is endlessly optimistic almost all the time, about anything and everything, mind you. Trust me, it's fine in short stints, but if I was around her 24/7, like her parents and sister, Foam, I'd probably have gone insane quite some time ago.

"Life isn't any worse than usual, at least."

She beams at me at that statement. "Good! Anything interesting happen since the last time I came here?"

Well, my mother's gotten significantly worse in the past couple of weeks, but I don't want to depress her. One thing I've learned from hanging out with her for twelve years is that Aqua is either smiling or crying. There's no in-between.

"Nothing, to be honest."

"Well, that's nice. Want to go get something to eat?"

"Sure thing," I say. "But remember…"

"Don't eat the clam chowder, I remember!"

She heads in the direction of the cafeteria, and I do my best to trail behind her and make sure she doesn't get lost.

* * *

Once we have our food (thankfully, Aqua did remember to avoid the clam chowder this time) it's back to small talk.

However, after about five minutes of this, Aqua throws it a question that has me stop in my tracks.

"Are you nervous about the Reapings tomorrow?"

After about a few seconds of my jaw hanging limp and looking like a complete idiot, I manage to actually answer. "I actually forgot that Reapings were tomorrow. In here, the days kind of blend together."

Aqua nods fervently. "I'm pretty nervous. Even though we don't need tesserae, I still have six slips in that bowl! It might not seem like much, but it sure will if I get picked!"

For the first few seconds, that statement means nothing. However, within a few more seconds, I make some miraculous connections.

The Reapings are tomorrow.

If you get Reaped, you get sent to the Capitol for the Hunger Games.

If you win the Hunger Games, you become rich beyond your wildest dreams.

If I become rich beyond my wildest dreams, Mom will still be around much longer than the doctors expect she'll make it, because I'll be able to afford the Capitol's treatment methods.

And even if I lose, I'll see her soon anyway, where I'm heading. If I get picked, it's a guaranteed win regardless of what happens in the arena.

Then, I remember that you don't even have to be picked. Volunteering for the games is a thing, it's common from most tributes sent from here to be volunteers. My heart leaps into my chest.

It might sound insane, but I know what I have to do now.

However, I'm jolted out of my stupor by Aqua saying, "Vick? Uhh, anyone home?"

As I shake my head to clear it, she gets back to talking, saying "Your eyes just, like, glazed over and I couldn't get you to talk."

"Oh. Sorry."

All of a sudden, Aqua checks her watch. "Oh, crap! Sorry, Vick, but I've got to go home!"

She stands up in an instant and sprints off into the distance, waving over her shoulder but not looking back.

Then, I decide to just go to bed early. I'll need all the rest I can get before I do the insane thing I'm about to do.

Trudging down the hallway, nearly getting lost despite supposedly knowing this place like the back of my hand, and with my mind wandering, I arrive at the empty storage closet that serves as my bedroom.

For once, the cot seems to be a little less scratchy and lumpy. The smell of cheap cleaner less pungent. The stains on the pillow not as prevalent.

Because I've found a way to save both of us, regardless of the outcome. That's all I need to believe as I go to sleep to feel like I'm about to have the best dreams I've ever had.

However, as soon as I sleep, one thought remains trapped in my own head.

 _Don't worry anymore, Mom. After I get back, everything will be okay again._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Professor R. J. Lupin1 for Vick. Coming up next is his second (and final) tribute, the D3F.

-However, this next chapter may take a while (more so than usual) because I'm still in high school and have to study for the unholy abominations known as midterm exams over the weekend. As such, I won't really have time to write until at least late next week (possibly later, if midterms get pushed back due to bad weather).

-Will be back to add more news and notes next chapter!


	11. D3F: Please Prove You're Not a Robot

**Chapter Ten: Please Prove You're Not a Robot**

* * *

 **The Day Where You Set Out Your Best Outfit**

* * *

 **Sotia Vance, District Three Female**

* * *

It's been two weeks since school let out, and I haven't been this happy since last summer.

Every day feels so much easier now. Frankly, I'm sick of endlessly being expected to be some sort of genius and be able to magically solve everyone's problems. Now, all I have to be is a fifteen-year-old girl.

It's nice to actually be treated like that and not like some walking, talking grade boost for once. In most of my classmates' eyes, that's all I am or ever will be. But in the summer, since we part ways and don't see each other again until school starts back up, that's no longer a concern.

For now, the only concern is making sure my two little sisters, Sailey and Tarin, don't do something stupid and get themselves killed while my father is at work. Because if that happens, I'm the one who's getting blamed.

"Sailey, Tarin, what did I tell you about sliding down the banister?"

Tarin's expression immediately morphs into a pout. "Sotia, please! We want to do this!"

"Well, you wanted to do it last time, too. And I wonder what happened then? I'll give you three guesses."

Her face screws up in concentration and turns an odd shade of pink. After a few seconds, though, a lightbulb of some kind appears to go off in her head. But, judging by her response, that lightbulb is broken.

"I made it all the way down and looked super awesome?"

I let out a groan. "Last time you tried, you fell over the banister halfway down and got a concussion. You were stuck in a hospital bed for a week, and of course I was the one who got blamed for letting it happen."

"It won't happen again! Pretty please?"

I hold firm, despite her pleading. "Sorry, but no."

Tarin begins crying a little, then stomps off to the room that the three of us share. Sailey quickly follows.

All I do is roll my eyes. I know my sisters are only ten and seven, respectively. But I don't remember being this impractical or stupid when I was their age.

Although, now that the two of them are in a secluded area, I can enjoy a little peace and quiet.

* * *

That much-coveted peace and quiet only lasts about ten minutes.

That's when Sailey and Tarin finally finish their pouting and come out of our room. Then, Sailey grabs the remote and turns on the battered TV to watch cartoons.

I'm fine with that. While they're occupied with the bright colors, I can go back to my room and maybe figure out why the electronic memory game Sailey got for her tenth birthday isn't working. (I'm not doing it out of the goodness of my heart or any of that crap. It would just be helpful to have something else to keep my sisters occupied if the cartoons stop being interesting.)

Quietly, I leave the living room and enter the small bedroom the three of us share. Picking up the rickety machine, I sit down on my bed's mismatched sheets, expose the insides of her game, and get to work.

It doesn't take long to figure out what the problem is, thankfully. One of the wires is loose, meaning that it's not sending any signals. This makes the game completely unplayable.

Grinning like a fiend, I quietly jam the loose wire back into the socket and test the game. Despite the screechy electronic voice grating on my ears, I manage to get a score of nine before I conclude that the game is functional again.

But I'm not showing Sailey yet. I plan to pull it out when the cartoons finally get boring- it'll make the time frame where they can hurt themselves doing something stupid smaller.

Eventually, I decide to just sit down on the couch and watch the cartoons with them- not because I enjoy them, but more because some of them are so mind-numbingly dull that watching them is the equivalent of sleeping: you get the same amount of sensory input from each activity.

Plopping down next to the two of them, I stare at the screen, hoping that the next episode will be of something so that I can easily zone out while watching.

* * *

After about an hour and a half of bright, flashing colors mixed in with deadpan voices, Dad finally makes it home.

He looks- and sounds- exhausted. He just manages to get out "Hey, guys, I'm home," and then he collapses in an easy chair.

I don't blame him, to be honest. He's already taken on a part-time job in addition to his full-time job to try and support all four of us so that the three of us don't have to drop out of school. The one time the three of us actually came to his factory's "Bring Your Daughter to Work Day," it became clear that Dad had to be pretty resilient in order to make it through those nightmarish eight-hour shifts. Mostly because he's expected to instinctively know exactly what needs to be done exactly as it happens like he's some sort of psychic. And if he doesn't get it perfectly right, the man who owns a chain of factories personally comes to the factory Dad works at to yell at him. (We saw that happen that day. I think Sailey and Tarin learned at least five new curse words during that exchange.)

Now that Dad's home, though, I decide to go for a walk. Not an especially long one- just one that'll allow me to _do_ something semi-productive for ten minutes.

So, I quickly tell Dad, "I'm going to go for a quick walk, is that OK?"

"Sure thing, just be back before dinner," his tired voice responds.

At that, I quietly walk out our apartment door, close it behind me, and head down the stairs.

* * *

Five minutes in, I've covered a reasonable enough distance, so I turn back.

The sights have remained the same as always, despite time passing by- ugly building after ugly building after ugly building. A single, skeletal tree in the vacant lot a few blocks away that always seems close to snapping under its own weight. Sparse flowers and grass occasionally dot the front yards of these buildings, but most of them are just made of cracking pavement and concrete. Even the sky is obscured by thick gray clouds and even thicker gray smoke.

The walk away from the house was uneventful. However, as I'm making my way back down along the pitted sidewalk, I pass by a group of girls who, unfortunately, I recognize from school. They're Veronica, Ashley, and Dayta- our school's three-person "snobby rich girls" clique.

In all honesty, I _hope_ they make some stupid comment about me. Then, I can give them exactly what they deserve.

They do not disappoint.

Ashley, the self-appointed leader of the three of them, makes the first move. "If it isn't little miss baby-face! Do I need to make a bottle for you? Maybe change your diaper?"

All I keep thinking, despite the insults, is _they'll never even know what hit them._

So instead, I fire back. "Why hello, Miss I-Needed-To-Bribe-The-Teacher-To-Pass-The-Easiest-English-Exam-In-Existence! How can I help you?"

Before you ask how I know that, it honestly was pretty common knowledge throughout the school. Everyone knew about it when it happened. I was probably the first to call her on it, though.

Ashley turns bright red, and I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears. Clearly, that insult hit close to home.

Dayta immediately takes her place, leaning down so her face is approximately one inch away from mine. "Oh, please. At least we aren't part of a group of the biggest nerds in existence, unlike _someone._ "

 _Seriously? That's the best you could come up with?_

"Well, also unlike _someone,_ I'm not wearing about fifty pounds of makeup! Although, you could use it, considering you have so many pimples!"

She stops sneering, and her expression changes to a glare. "How do you know that?"

"Because you didn't even do a good job hiding them! You look like you're about to audition for the role of a drunk clown!"

She gasps and clenches her fists. What I've learned from my miserable school year of being around them is that the number-one way to get her and most of her friends riled up is insulting their makeup-applying abilities. They quickly resort to throwing punches (or at least they try, their punches are so weak it's only slightly more painful than being hit with a cottonball) whenever this is called into question.

However, for once, they seem to not resort to a fistfight. Maybe they don't want to ruin their makeup any further than they already have.

Instead, Veronica shoves me away, hard, hisses something unintelligible under her breath, and leads the other two back down the street where they came from.

 _Wow, that felt awesome,_ I think as I head back home.

* * *

When I finally get home, the cartoons are still on.

Dad's making dinner and both Sailey and Tarin are camped out in front of the TV and its bright, flashing colors. With nothing left to do for the next couple of minutes, I decide to just wait in the kitchen for dinner.

Soon enough, it's ready. However, it's not exactly the most fancy thing in existence- we just suffered the unfortunate event of Tarin discovering macaroni and cheese. She likes it so much that now we have it, like, every other night. (It being super inexpensive only compounds that problem.)

Just as expected, the pot of macaroni and cheese hits the table, rattling it so badly I'm afraid it's going to snap in half. A portion of leftover salad from yesterday that might be large enough to feed a mouse sits beside it.

Needless to say, Dad and I barely touch the stuff, having gotten sick of macaroni and cheese by now, but Sailey and Tarin each eat more that I think should be physically possible for them to hold down.

After that spectacle (accompanied by some monumental burping between the two of them) dinner is quickly cleaned up after, and we start doing all the normal things we usually do before bed.

All seems well until Tarin asks a fateful question: "Daddy, what should I put out to wear tomorrow for the big ceremony?"

All of a sudden, Dad stirs a little from his spot. "Crap. Tomorrow's Reaping Day. Do all of you have your formal outfits ready?"

"Yes, Dad," all three of us instantly respond. The last time we wore them was for… I guess last year at the Reapings. My memory seems to be blank from now until then.

Sure enough, as the three of us go to our room and fish through the closet we share, we all find or Reaping Day outfits, all of them impossibly clean, and put them down on a bench for tomorrow.

Then, my exhausted state gets the better of me, and I quietly head for the shower to clean off.

* * *

I crawl under the covers of the bed I've had since age four, preparing to sleep.

Sailey and Tarin are already asleep, less than five feet away from me. Sailey is mumbling nonsense, and while Tarin's chest is rising and falling, she doesn't seem to be doing anything else.

Everything has become so soothing. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...

Finally, I give in to my tiredness and let the night envelop me.

Everything slides away peacefully, and the world fades to black.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Professor R. J. Lupin1 for sending in Sotia.

-Coming up next is IciclePower33's first (and only) tribute, the D8M.

-Sorry this took so long. I had midterms last week, and while they went fine for the most part, they didn't leave me with a ton of time to write. Hopefully, this next chapter will be out faster.

-Thanks for sticking with me for this long. See you next chapter!


	12. D8M: Short End of the Stick

**Chapter Eleven: Short End of the Stick**

* * *

 **Freak-Out Time**

* * *

 **Romeo Brady, District Eight Male**

* * *

In the six years I've been working here, I've _really_ grown to hate sewing.

It's not like I took this job because I knew I was going to love it. It was because we needed the money more than anything else. But there has to be a job out there that comes with a bit more variety than doing the same thing, over and over, every single day. Plus, this job manages to somehow be extremely difficult and extremely boring at the same time.

I can't really afford to waste that much time talking, even though since school let out my hours have been extended to full-time. Mostly because, ever since the disaster that occurred two years ago, I've been much slower than the other workers at my position.

This means that, three hours in, while my co-workers Sash and Levi are each putting their finishing touches on their first piece for the day (a baby blanket with a complex pattern on it), I haven't even passed the halfway mark on mine. And it's not like their finished pieces are any worse than mine. I just can't keep up with them anymore.

Levi goes to hand off his completed piece to the supervisor, who smiles and gives him his next piece to make. A few minutes later, Sash hands off hers, and the same exchange occurs.

That just leaves me. I'm adding new lines as fast as I can, but unfortunately, that's not good enough in this business.

"Romeo! Come on, could you go any slower?" This comes from my supervisor, Harold. "You know we have a quota to meet by tomorrow!"

I want to go faster, but I don't see how I can do that without having the blanket turn into a mess. I know that because every time I focus solely on speed and not accuracy, my finished products less resemble a finished garment and look more like someone just taped together some fabric and called it a day.

I just respond, "Trying my best!"

"Well your best isn't good enough! I ought to fire you for this!"

I resist the urge to snicker. He's said that at least once a week ever since I got moved to the "fancy items" section of the workplace. However, he never follows through with it, because I've been working here since age ten and the turnover rate at this station is so high. Most people don't stay long here (I'd say about 75% of employees ask for transfers within the first two weeks of working here), and a lot of the time I'm the only person with any experience making these things.

Meaning, a lot of the time I'm spending more time explaining to my new co-workers how to make various items than, well, making the items.

However, they _still_ manage to become faster workers than me in only a couple of days, because last time I checked, it's pretty hard to sew very fast (or at all) when you're missing fingers like I am.

Oh, right, my fingers. Two years ago, I used to have all ten, like a normal person. However, after an incident involving me, a faulty machine designed to "pound" shirts and pants flat to make them look more appealing, and a missing yardstick, I got my fingers pounded when I was just trying to get it to work on a shirt.

One surgery later, I came out four fingers short of an average person- three and a half on my left hand, two and a half on my right. Even though I got next to no sympathy from my boss, at least he moved me to a position where I didn't have to work with machines anymore- the "fancy items" section, where workers made designs that were so complex the machines couldn't replicate them properly.

Sash and Levi have come back, each of them having picked up another design for a baby blanket and started sewing.

Meanwhile, all I can think is that I need to concentrate on the one I have in front of me.

Lowering my head again, I return to work, hoping that I can at least finish _something_ today.

* * *

As it turns out, seven hours of monotony later, I manage to turn in the baby blanket and a special-order shirt.

As I pass my stuff forward, the boss gives me my earnings for the day. It's not much, since he bases our wages on how much product we produce as opposed to how long we work (which is unfair, but I'm not really in a position to complain).

Finally, I walk out of that cursed factory and get a chance to see the sun again. Well, the faint imprint that it makes on the smoke-covered sky, anyway.

Eyes stinging a little from the terrible air (even though I've gotten used to it), I begin the short trek back home, not wanting to wait any longer than I have to before I can rest my mind.

* * *

Our "home" would honestly be more fitting for mice than for us.

I mean, we only have two rooms. One for us to (just barely) fit three mattresses on the floor so we all have a place to sleep, and one where we do everything else. It's boiling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. The electricity works maybe a quarter of the time, and the toilet is so faulty it backs up every other time we try to use it (although at least we're lucky enough to have a toilet, period).

The place is literally falling down around us. The roof sags in spots, the dividing wall is starting to crack, and even the door is showing its age: it's splintery and the hinges are coated with a thick layer of rust.

Opening the door slowly to make sure that it won't just fall off the hinges (it wouldn't have been the first time), I step inside the blazing-hot house, trying to see who's home.

As it turns out, that answer is _everybody._ Mom, Dad, and my three siblings, Nathan Jr., Brielle, and Cassius (I don't know where my parents got that name from).

Brielle, as always, takes notice of me first. "Hey, everyone! Romeo's home!"

All of a sudden, I have five pairs of eyeballs pointed my way.

Silently, I toss the little money I've made today on the wobbly table that we usually eat on, saying, "This is the money I made today. Hopefully, it helps."

Dad goes to pick it up. "Romeo, you know every bit helps. If the house is any indication, we're not exactly very high on the District totem pole."

He's one hundred percent right- what I make would be next to nothing for a lot of the wealthier residents of the Districts, but it sure as hell is plenty for us- it's enough to buy a half-decent meal or two, and is a nice addition to Mom, Dad, and Nathan Jr.'s paychecks, which cover the bare basics and a tiny bit extra.

Since I'm currently very sweaty from working in a stuffy building for the past ten hours, I decide to go change into my other set of clothes. However, when I look into the cardboard box that houses all our clothing, I notice it's empty.

"Uhh, Mom? Did you move my clothes again?" She does that a lot, and I never know why. Usually it's because she's trying to fold it, but when she does that, she takes one set at a time.

Mom calls out from the other room. "I have them all in a bin. I was planning to send Brielle down to the Laundromat with some money to make sure they're at least clean for tomorrow. I want everyone to at least look clean for Reaping Day. And speaking of that, tesserae day's today, can someone go to the Justice Building and pick up our monthly ration?"

Cassius, of course, instantly declines. "I don't want anyone to see me with that stuff."

It's annoying, but he always wants to give out the impression that we're in a better position than we actually are. It's like he doesn't realize that there are people in our family besides him who go outdoors, and it's not like we care much about what other people think about our financial status.

So, I decide to step in. "I got this."

Mom smiles. "That's the spirit!"

With a bit of spring in my step, I move outside, heading towards the mayor's office.

* * *

In no time at all, I reach the crowded, soot-covered city.

There's a long line spilling outside the Justice Building, which I immediately get on, waiting patiently in line for the family's grain and oil.

It's moving surprisingly quickly, considering that the only person running he thing seems to be a girl even younger than I am. In what seems like no time at all, I'm close enough to the girl to see that her dress is patched in way too many spots to count.

A few short minutes later, I'm standing right in front of her as she looks at me with a blindingly white smile.

"Excuse me, what's your last name?"

"Brady."

She pulls up a small packet up stapled-together papers and quickly scans it. "You're on the list, your stuff will be here in a second." She turns behind her. "Bernard! I need six sacks, stat!"

A hefty kid who looks to be about eighteen quietly sets six tesserae sacks in front of me. "Here you go, sir."

There's no way I can carry all of those. Thankfully, I brought a wheelbarrow that my family bought eight years ago specifically for this purpose. Even then, it's still a huge struggle to push the food that will keep all six of us going without breaking the wheelbarrow.

It's going to be a nightmare getting home. Especially since most of the way home is uphill.

However, I manage to strike lucky. Just passing by are two friends of mine, Leif and Raiden. Surprisingly, they notice me before I even say anything.

"Oh, hey there, Romeo," Raiden starts off.

"Need help with the load?" Leif immediately says this following their introduction.

"I sure do," I reply.

Wordlessly, Raiden takes two sacks and Leif takes two sacks, and each of them put the sacks in their own wheelbarrows.

"We just finished wheeling in our own stuff," Raiden explains. "It's much easier for us, neither of us have any siblings."

While the lack of siblings does make their lives a little bit easier, I've been to their houses before, and trust me, they're just as bad off as we are. Leif lives in a crumbling shack that's even smaller than ours, although he only has a mother to share it with (his dad died when he was little from an infection after he got his hand impaled by a dirty sewing needle), and Raiden lives in a similar shack with his parents, although he has the luxury of a bathtub (even though an actual bath is more hassle than it's worth, because the water quality here is bad enough you have to boil it for sixty seconds before it's safe to drink or bathe in).

With the way home much less stressful now that we're splitting the load, we walk out of town, heading back for the shack I call home.

* * *

Soon enough, we arrive back to where I live, all of us sweating from pushing a weight so far uphill.

"Thanks for the help, guys," I say, trying to be polite, especially considering that they probably have somewhere to be at this point.

"No problem, Romeo." Leif smiles. Then the two of them head back the way they came, now with completely empty wheelbarrows. Knowing the two of them, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to ride them downhill. (They don't know this, but I tried that once. Let's just say that it did not end well, and leave it at that.)

I manage to drag all six sacks inside, shaking from exhaustion. Too tired to speak, I just tap Mom and point to the food.

Immediately, she nods, picks up a sack, and tears it open. Looks like we're having tesserae bread and water for dinner… again.

Sure enough, half an hour later, we all get a piece of tesserae bread- the kind that's designed to resemble a pillow in everything but taste. It's not that bad, actually- just not very filling since there's so much air and so little substance in each bite. Thankfully, the way it's made means there's a lot of it, more than you'd get from other Districts' tesserae breads (at least, from the short glimpses I've seen of each of them while inside the tiny bakery in town), so you get the same amount of bread either way.

After all the piping-hot bread and lukewarm water is gone (lukewarm because we both lack a fridge and need to boil our water before we drink it), Mom disappears, probably to get our clothes for Reaping Day tomorrow. Immediately afterward, Dad, who's so tired right now that he can barely speak, just staggers into the bedroom and flops down on a mattress.

As for everyone else, we put up with Brielle's endless chatter about the most pointless, inane topics imaginable. I don't know why she's so talkative, but seriously, all of us have wondered on more than one occasion if she comes with an "off" button.

Once the sun goes down, the electricity, inconveniently enough, stops working, leaving us in darkness. The smoke and haze in the sky is too thick for the moon to easily penetrate, so all we can see of it is a light gray, messy smudge in a starless sky.

As if she runs on a timer, Brielle always goes to bed exactly when the sun goes down. It's like magic- the electricity fails, she finishes her sentence, and then goes off to the other room to lie down on one of the mattresses.

After about fifteen minutes of sitting around in the dark, Mom finally gets back with the clothes, and hangs them all over a chair, instructing the rest of us, "wear these tomorrow. It's the one time of year where people care about how you look. Don't screw it up for everyone else, please!"

After that, I go to the mattresses myself, closely followed by Cassius, Mom, and Nathan Jr., since there's just nothing to do now since we can barely see.

Cassius takes his place on the far side of Brielle's mattress (don't worry, we have a dividing plank up on that mattress so they don't, you know, bump into each other too hard), Mom does the same to Dad's mattress. Finally, I sprawl on the empty one, leaving Nathan the other side.

Even with Reapings tomorrow, none of us seem to care. We've gotten apathetic towards them over the years- it seems like every year a kid outside any of our age ranges is sent off to die. And even though we take tesserae for extra slips in the bowl (most of them in Nathan's name and a couple in mine) so many other families do it's not very risky.

Finally, my head hits the spot of the mattress where a pillow should be, and I'm asleep almost instantly.

 _Well, what goes on tomorrow is out of my hands. But I'll probably be fine._

Then the darkness closes in on me, and everything falls into oblivion.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to IciclePower33 for sending in Romeo.

-Coming up next is the first (and only) tribute by Ripplerz, the D7M.

-Following that comes the D6F, D8F, and D12F.

-Thanks for bearing with me until this chapter came out. Again, they'll come out a little faster now that I have more time to write (since midterms are over).

-See you next chapter!


	13. D7M: Tipping Point

**Chapter Twelve: Tipping Point**

* * *

 **Prior to The Death Sentence for Twenty-Three Children**

* * *

 **Aryion Hylus, District Seven Male**

* * *

It doesn't matter who you are or where you're from, at some point you're going to go through a couple of bad days and think, _my life sucks._

However, that's the thought I've been having just about every day for the past two years now.

I live in a place where no one wants me. Everything I own is crammed into a small bag at the foot of the cot I sleep on every night. The one person I actually thought had any feelings for me turned out to be a kleptomaniac who just needed an easy target. (And I never got that stuff back, either.)

There are only a couple of positive things I can recall from the past two years. And trust me, I tried.

One of them is Fletcher, even if he's a bit of a mixed bag in the personality department. At the orphanage where I live, most people aren't there to make friends- they're there to do what they have to in order to not starve to death. (Which, last time I checked, is a pretty reasonable priority.) Thankfully, one of the previous few exceptions here is someone who I can at least be around for more than five minutes without wanting to punch them.

The second is me finally hitting sixteen, where you're old enough to sign the job waiver required to cut down trees for money. (Turns out, getting killed on the job is a very real possibility- there's been at least five tree-related casualties I've heard about since March.) Meaning, I can work on orphanage-sanctioned projects (usually ones set aside by companies here because they know no one else wants to work on them), and actually make a little money off of it.

The third barely counts, considering it's worn off in a gruesome fashion by now, but it's those idyllic two months where I actually had a girlfriend, a girl named April. Before she revealed her true colors to me though half of everything I owned mysteriously going missing, she was, if not necessarily nice, at least polite. We couldn't really do much together, however, due to her "full-time job," as she put it, but at least we could talk and do, well, normal stuff.

My fists clench at the memory. I don't know where she is now, but I'd guess she's either latching on to another target, has been caught in the middle of a job and executed, or breaking into someone else's house.

But anyway, it's time for another "orphan project," as most of the District calls it. Gerald, the man who runs it, yells out "Everyone assigned to this project needs to hurry up! If you don't, I'll speak to the mayor and personally make sure you get Reaped tomorrow!"

Even though I know his threats are probably baseless (he says stuff like that _all the freaking time_ and almost never follows through with it), I still don't want to tick him off. Therefore, I quickly chomp down the last few bites of my meager breakfast and run for the door.

* * *

When we arrive at the site, we see that the place is already clear of branches.

A voice pops into my head and nearly reaches my mouth before I clamp shut. _Did they seriously call us here to move imaginary branches? Or maybe they were on drugs or something?_

However, a minute later, a beefy man with a thick cigar and a stained work uniform explains to us what we're supposed to do. All we need to do is move some branches from a clearing about half a mile away to where we're standing now, by using a path that cuts through the woods between them. Seems easy enough.

By instinct, we all run towards that path as soon as the main is done talking in a stampede to get there first. We cross the clearing in mere seconds, and hit the path.

Then we slow to a slow walk, because the trees are so overgrown here that the path is just a long, winding stretch of pitch-black. For a few seconds, we stumble around, not sure what to do.

Then a girl near the back of the line (who sounds like she's about my age) yells, "This should be obvious, but we need to stick together! Grab on to the person in front of you!"

Everyone immediately tries to do that. Only problem is, it's so dark that we can't see where the next person's shoulders are, meaning that a _lot_ of us (not me or the person behind me, thankfully) miss and wind up just hitting the other person.

"Ow! Watch it!"

"Do you know how arms work?"

"My shoulders are up here, idiot!"

"Where did _you_ learn how to aim?"

It takes a fair bit of time (and even more frustration), but we finally manage to form a sort of conga line as we slowly trudge through the soggy woods. The path becomes confusing, curvy, and littered with things designed to trip any unsuspecting walkers. All we can do is hope the person at the front of the line (who's leading all of us) doesn't get lost.

Thankfully, we manage to follow the path until we finally step out of the gloom and into a near-identical clearing. The main difference is that this one is littered with branches. (Clearly, the numskull the instructor was talking about saw no need to, you know, stack them in a pile, or at least move them in the same general area so that this job would be a little bit easier.)

Even worse, all these logs look _heavy._ Lifting them isn't going to be impossible, but we'll definitely have to put two on each log. Meaning more trips back and forth.

Everyone seems to have a partner already. However, a couple of people are trying (and failing) to lift up logs on their own. I guess they must either be really brave or really stupid.

Trying to be useful, I dart toward the nearest person who doesn't seem to have any help. Thankfully, I recognize him: it's Fletcher, trying to pick up one of the largest branches in the whole field by himself.

"Fletcher! Dude!" I've made the incredibly dumb decision to yell this at him, even though he's less than fifteen feet away. (And, last time I checked, he's not hearing-impaired.)

"Aryion, what's the big deal?"

"I think you need help with that."

Before he can protest, I grab on to the other half of the log and hoist it up, right at the same time that he tries for a solo lift again. Sure enough, the log manages to get off the ground this time, and stays there, too.

"Come on, let's get a move on," I say to him.

Quickly as possible (considering we're carrying about a hundred pounds of branch) we make our way to the path. Surprisingly enough, we manage to beat almost everyone to the path, since most of the others are awkwardly struggling to carry their logs.

However, once we plunge into the darkness of the path again, we realize we're in for a lot more trouble than we bargained for, mostly because we _can't freaking see_ the path that we're supposed to be following. All I hope is that we don't miss a turn or something and get lost without food or water in The Middle of Nowhere, District 7, Panem (pop. 2).

After about five minutes of stumbling through the dark, there's still no end in sight.

"Aryion, are you sure we're not lost?"

"I don't think so."

"That's not very encouraging."

I'm about to say something back, but I don't have time to get it out before I trip over something and crash to the ground, losing my grip on the log with a gasp.

I can't see anything, but that only makes the scene more horrible as I hear a sickening _thud_ as the log slams into the path. Miraculously, I don't even get scratched.

All is silent for a second. Then Fletcher starts screaming.

No words, mind you. Just a long, drawn-out wail that I'm pretty confident sends every animal within a half-mile radius running for cover. Thankfully, it dies down after a couple of seconds, replaced with only panting and, from what I can tell, crying.

I quickly stoop down to where Fletcher is. "Are you okay?"

Then I look closer. He clearly tried to dodge the log once I tripped, but wasn't quite quick enough. His left arm is fine, but every part of his right arm past the shoulder is pinned, and at a very awkward angle, too.

"Do I _look_ okay?" He says this with a snarl that scares me a little.

I have to act fast. "Do you think you can move your arm at all? Because I'm going to try to lift that side of the log so you can slide it out."

He's gritting his teeth now to try and deal with the pain, but at least he's able to nod. So, I hurry over to his end of the log, and groan from the effort as I push up with all my might.

The log rises a few inches as I grunt and strain. I only manage to hold it up for a few seconds, but that's all that Fletcher needs. In that short space of time, he manages to scoot away a few inches, so that when the log thumps on the ground again, his arm is no longer under it. However, the damage from the first time isn't pretty.

It's obvious the arm is broken- it's bent at an odd angle, swelling up, and turning several nasty shades of pink and purple. Now it's _really_ important that we aren't lost, because the last thing we need is to be stuck in the middle of the woods when Fletcher desperately needs to get to a hospital.

Thankfully, by this point, a capable adult who _doesn't_ have his hands full has managed to make his way over and find us- Gerald. However, he does not seem very pleased, since one of us is down and the other one isn't doing anything.

"Okay, where's the fire?" He's currently staring at Fletcher, who's sobbing like there's no tomorrow.

It's probably smarter for me to talk. "His arm is broken! I don't know where the hospital is, but he definitely needs to go there and get it fixed."

Gerald curses under his breath. "Great. We've been here for less than half an hour and now I'm going to have to fill out all this _stupid_ paperwork because someone got hurt on the job." Then he pauses. "Wait- you're not a full-time employee, never mind. Come on, let's go." Quickly, he pulls Fletcher to his feet, eliciting a groan of pain from him.

Then he turns to me. "Aryion, if you're going to get people injured doing something as simple as this, I can't have you work on these projects."

Seeing as how these are among the _only_ bright spots in my life, it's all I can do to defend myself. "I'm sorry his arm got broken, it was an accident, he'll-"

"You imbecile, you _broke his arm!_ Come on. We're going back to the orphanage _right now!_ " He immediately pulls on my arm as if I don't already know where the orphanage is.

"No. Drag me." If he wants to treat me like a five-year-old, that's exactly what I'm going to act like. I don't care if that's petty, that's what he deserves.

He does just what I tell him to, surprisingly. Quietly, he pulls me out of the woods, heading back to the godforsaken place that's supposed to be home.

* * *

As soon as I'm dragged in the front door, Gerald slams his butt down on a chair and motions to me to take the place opposite him. Then, he bursts more violently than an overfilled water balloon.

"Look _right freaking here,_ Mister. I do not have time to deal with crap like this right now. I have a million other things on my radar right now, and none of them should be that a kid was so stupid that he broke his partner's arm!" He pauses for a few seconds, the vein in his forehead pulsing. "I can't do anything right now, but let me tell you, Mister, as soon as the Reapings are over tomorrow we are going to have a _serious. Freaking. Chat._ Capiche?"

I groan. "I understand," I say, even though, no, I don't understand in the slightest.

"Now sit right there and _don't freaking move_ until I get back. That hammer itself into your thick skull?"

"Yes, Gerald, loud and clear," I say, even though, once more, I have no intention of obeying him.

As soon as Gerald stalks off to do something that's presumably more important than I am, I slip out the door. I do know that Gerald dropped Fletcher off at the hospital before leaving me here, and I know proper etiquette would be to go see him and, you know, _apologize_ for accidentally triggering the events that broke his arm.

* * *

In District Seven, the hospital is far from special- it's just a rickety log building crammed with cots and bustling with nurses in dirty uniforms.

I quietly move through the door, looking for Fletcher's cot. It's not hard to find- only two people in the room appear to have broken arms, and one of them is a girl.

So, I walk up to him. As soon as Fletcher sees me, he stares me down. "Hello, Aryion. Came to make some snarky remark?"

I shake my head. "I just wanted to apologize. Because I want to be polite and _not_ have a ticked-off friend simmering in a crumbling building for a week or more."

"Okay. But seriously, that was a _pretty painful mistake!_ " He yells this so loudly that the other patients nearby turn towards him with a look of annoyance. I'm not sure if all the anesthetic he's probably under is causing him to overreact or if he thinks I intentionally dropped the log to make a point or _what_ is causing this, but this doesn't sound like Fletcher.

"Fletcher, I'm sorry, it was an accident-"

He turns back towards me. "Look. I don't know if I believe you or not when you say that, but either way, I don't want to talk right now. Can you please leave?"

Great. In less than two hours I've essentially lost both of the things that made the last two years bearable. But, I don't want to break down in from of so many people, so I just wind up saying, "Alright then," and heading back for the orphanage.

Wow. It _really_ doesn't take much for life to go from passable to "how the hell did I end up here," doesn't it?

* * *

I'm trudging back up the long, winding path to the orphanage, when, suddenly, it hits me.

I remember one of Gerald's statements from just this morning. "If you don't hurry up, I'll speak to the mayor personally and make sure you get Reaped tomorrow!"

He can't actually do that.

But I sure can.

I mean, at this point, what do I have to lose? Once I turn eighteen, I leave (i.e., get kicked out of) the orphanage. If I get _really_ lucky after, maybe I can secure a job and at least avoid starving to death. But, based on the fact that I've heard a million horror stories from some of the more… out there kids that had friends run away from the orphanage and become a victim of starvation (someone has the decency to notify them that their friend is dead in those cases, some cases their friend just leaves and never comes back) that I know that probably isn't going to happen.

This way, I'll either become famous or dead by the end of my trials. And trust me, either would be better than this.

Either way would be preferable, with the way my life has gone so far.

So, I trudge back towards the orphanage, with a tongue-lashing by Gerald for disobeying his orders probably imminent. However, a single thought keeping me going:

 _Just one more day. Then, I'm out of here for good._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Ripplerz for sending in Aryion.

-Coming up next is EmberLex's first (and only) tribute, the D6F. This will be followed by the D8F, D12F, and one of the D5 tributes (they were sent by the same person, so the order in which I do them doesn't really matter).

-The next upload is coming out next Tuesday at absolute earliest. I will be in a place where I will not have much free time or access to Word until then. Ergo, I will be unable to upload new chapters. But, trust me, I'll be writing.

-A poll will soon be up on my profile where you'll get to ring in your opinion- who's your favorite tribute thus far? (Try not to be biased!)

-See you next chapter!


	14. D6F: It's All Fun and Games

**Chapter Thirteen: It's All Fun and Games**

* * *

 **One Day Remaining (Give or Take)**

* * *

 **Zari Morlett, District Six Female**

* * *

 **Note: When Liela "talks," all of her "dialogue" is in italics to simulate sign language. All conversations with her will be in italics. Sorry for any confusion.**

* * *

I've essentially become a mother at the young age of seventeen.

And the crazy part is, I think I really like it.

The five of us- Zeke, me, Ophelia, Xander, and Myra (from oldest to youngest, of course) are all back together in our house, which is a little overpacked now that school's out for the summer. Meaning, Zeke and I have to keep watch over the other three whenever Mom and Dad are at work. And, honestly, it's kind of fun. I figured out pretty quickly that when you put all of us together (especially the younger three) you'll get some charming, albeit very odd, experiences.

Which leads me to my current position. I'm currently "chained" to a chair with duct tape and being held prisoner in the kitchen by Zeke, who has dressed as a cyborg pirate (complete with an eye patch and a robotic right arm). I'm supposed to be a fairy princess (evidenced by my pink crown and "magic wand" which is actually just a plastic spoon coated in pink glitter). From the bits I've overheard, the other three plan to rescue me with a plan that involves rainbows, a unicorn that spits acid, and an octopus that's missing two limbs. (And I thought _my_ childhood imagination was ridiculously nonsensical!)

No matter how insane our games get, we've only upheld three rules while we play: no intentionally hurting someone else, no breaking anything on purpose, and no raw eggs. (That rule got added two years ago, after Xander thought that the best way to defeat a mad witch was by hitting her with raw eggs. Unfortunately, a six-year-old doesn't exactly have impeccable aim, meaning more of it got on the walls than on me. Those stains took _days_ to scrub out.)

Currently, Zeke is waving a sword like crazy with his free hand, cackling like a lunatic. "You'll never take me alive, you nut-sucking mongrels!" (I have no idea how to translate pirate lingo, but I'd guess that's an insult.)

All of a sudden, the other three burst through the door, toting a variety of strange things- most notably, a toy octopus that Myra keeps swinging like a baseball bat. Silently, I'm grateful we had this part of the game in the kitchen- there's nothing that can really be broken in here.

"No, but we can take you dead!" Myra yells this as she swings the octopus directly at Zeke. He dances out of the way, and the thing narrowly misses my head.

Zeke smirks. "Brave, for one your size. But it is _you_ who shall be dead when I have accomplished my greatest endeavor yet!"

A voice from the living room calls out "Not quite yet!"

Then, Xander and Ophelia burst into the room, toting a unicorn and what appears to be rainbow glitter. Zeke immediately gasps. "Oh, _no!_ That isn't just any glitter!"

Xander responds with "That's right! This is super rainbow glitter!"

Ophelia chimes in. "Guaranteed to stop pirates _and_ robots, every time, or your money back!" She immediately throws all of it onto Zeke.

"Nooooooooooo!"

Zeke does a pretty good job of over-dramatically collapsing to the ground as he claws at his face. Then, the other three peel off my duct tape, and say, "you are free to go, The Lovely Fairy!"

Then, I traipse out of the room as daintily as possible, as everyone bursts out into uncontrollable laughter.

"Wow, that was awesome!" Ophelia says this as tears stream down her face. She's laughing so hard that about a minute later, she starts hiccupping. Then, all the laughter just fades into a bit of an awkward silence.

"That _was_ awesome," I reply, "but, Mom and Dad are going to be home any minute, and all this glitter isn't going to clean itself up. Come on, everyone knows where the dustpans and hand brooms are!"

Everyone, including me, grabs a hand broom and a dustpan and starts sweeping up the glitter. In no time, the job is finished. Which is good, because sixty seconds after we've deposited most of the glitter back into a gigantic bag of the stuff, the front door swings open, and Mom and Dad are officially home for the day.

"Hello, guys!" This comes from Dad.

"Considering that the house is still standing and I don't see any raw-egg stains on the wall, I think I can assume nothing too tragic happened while we were gone. Am I right?" After the… _incident_ with raw eggs, she's harbored this fear that she'll suddenly come home and find the house burnt down or something. I've never been quite sure why.

Myra quietly slips out from behind Ophelia. "Nothing except for Peggy going to sleep forever."

"Who's Peggy?"

I cut that off before it gets too out of hand. "No one important." Then I turn to Myra. "We were just pretending, remember?"

She looks at me and nods. "I remember. Sorry."

Zeke then turns to our parents. "Do you mind if Zari and I go out for an hour to see friends? Just in case, you know, the unthinkable happens tomorrow."

Dad frowns. "Oh. Right. Tomorrow's Reaping Day. You two can go out for an hour. Just be back for dinner!"

Zeke's already halfway out the door. "Sure thing!"

Seeing no other real options, I head out the door after him, wanting to see my own friends as well before tomorrow.

* * *

Zeke and I have split up for this part. If there's one thing in particular we don't share as closely (despite being twins) it would be what we looked for in friends. Unlike the semi-crazy bunch Zeke has been known to hang out with, my friends are actually pretty normal. For the most part, anyway.

I'm not sure where they all are as of now. I'll have to round them all up if I want to have any chance at talking to all of them and still getting back in time to eat.

Thankfully, they're all clustered together around a bench outside the town hall. I'm not sure what they're there for (depending on what time of day it is, you can hear speeches from our mayor, listen in on some truly bizarre conversations, and even see a morphling deal now and then), but the point is, I won't have to hunt them down.

Korrie is casually leaning over the edge of the bench and chatting up a storm, causing Jacob, who's sitting right next to her, to nod constantly. Liela, the last of our group, is quietly standing up behind them, wearing a heavy pair of earmuffs despite the sweltering heat.

"Hey, everyone!" I'm yelling this as loud as I can. "Over here!"

They all turn in my direction and wave, even if Liela needs a bit of prompting from Korrie, since, unfortunately, she's deaf (she wears earmuffs no matter the weather so that it's obvious that she can't hear anything that anyone says to her).

"Zari, nice to see you!" Korrie nearly yells this at the top of her lungs.

 _Hello, Zari_ , Liela quickly signs for me.

"Hello, guys," I say as quickly as possible. Then, I sign it for Liela. _Hello, guys_. (Zeke dragged all of us- including Liela- into some optional class covering basic sign language two years ago. At least now I can hold up my end of a conversation with Liela.)

Jacob quietly turns towards me. "You feel ready for tomorrow? Because, in all honesty, I sure don't."

I try to laugh him off. "Dude, there has to be a million slips in that bowl! We didn't know either of the kids last year, or the year before, or the year before. No need to stress about it. It's not happening."

His face turns ashen. "My younger sister, Shannon, knew the girl last year. Not closely, mind you, but they shared a few classes."

"She knew who that Sofia girl was?"

"She did. And she took it pretty hard when she died three minutes in. Sure, this girl wasn't one of her friends or anything, but, it probably still felt horrible to know that someone she saw regularly, hell, they might have talked a couple of times, wouldn't ever be coming back."

The smile fades right off my face. "Sorry about that. I didn't know."

"It's fine. You didn't know. A year has passed, hopefully she's gotten over it by now. Just don't bring up the last Hunger Games in front of her."

Liela signs, _I'll be fine, even with the Games. We can't change them, so why bother?_

I sign back, saying, _That's a good line of thought. We can't change it, why worry about it?_

"What are you guys saying?" Korrie asks this quickly, like she's nervous that I'll get all offended over her asking a very reasonable question.

"Just that there's no real reason to worry too much about something we can't change."

Then, I allow myself to look at the time. Near the top of the tallest building in town- the church- there's a gigantic clock that took a team of fifty workers a full summer to complete properly. Even if that clock is off, it's been what everyone has based their times off of ever since in this town.

As soon as I see it, I have to stifle a gasp. Forty minutes have already ticked by, leaving me with ten to spend with everyone else and ten to make the walk home.

"So, anything you guys want to do right now?"

Korrie replies with, "How about we try to climb that tree?"

Liela signs, _What tree?_

She signs back, _Come on, you know what tree. It won't take long. Come on, let's go!_

I know what they're all talking about, and I'm getting a pit in my stomach just from thinking about it.

The tree they're talking about is a real monster. It's been dead for quite some time, but thankfully, no one has cut it down and sent it to District Seven yet. We've dared each other to climb this tree all the way to the top every single year since age ten, but haven't had the guts- or the steady feet- required to make it all the way up. At age twelve, I nearly missed grabbing a branch on it and almost fell thirty-plus feet to the ground. I still have nightmares about that.

However, when we reach the tree, it's already surrounded by a couple of kids, chanting as a girl in the branches climbs higher and higher. Including one familiar face…

"Hey, Zari." Zeke has distanced himself from the crowd so he can be heard over their chants of "Go, girl, go!"

"Who's that in the tree?"

"Oh, that's Belle. She's in my Car Assembly class. She's the best climber out of all of us: if she can't do it, I highly doubt anyone else can."

Whoever this Belle is, she's already halfway up, and not slowing down. Well, she _does_ stop to blow a kiss down towards the ground. The boy who the kiss must be directed towards shrieks and nearly faints. Two of his friends have to support him so he can stand up straight again.

She keeps ascending, and she's not far from the top anymore. Forty feet, thirty feet, twenty feet…

Then a branch audibly cracks under her feet.

She lets out a squeal, and grabs onto a branch above her with both hands, which begins to bend, even under her relatively small weight. As if she'd prepared for this moment, she immediately begins climbing back down the tree, sticking to the larger branches that are close to the trunk, ignoring the groans coming from her audience.

As she hits the ground, she says, in a surprisingly masculine voice, "Maybe if I was lighter. But not now. A pretty good view is better than not living to see an awesome view." Then, she saunters off.

"Hey, Zari," Korrie yells from the other side of the tree. "You want to try next?"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go home. I'll try it after the Reapings!" Then I turn to Zeke. "Come on, dinner's probably waiting."

Despite Korrie and Liela both giving me disapproving looks, Zeke and I dart off so that we can make it home in time to eat. Because, trust me, Ophelia has turned into a human garbage disposal as of late.

* * *

Thankfully, I return and there is still food on the table. Ophelia hasn't gotten very far yet.

Before it's all gone, Zeke and I grab some celery sticks and carrots, alongside a small portion of what appears to be beef and a piece of the bread our District is famous for (very chewy, grooves on top of the loaf to mimic tire tracks, hint of maple syrup baked in).

As we're busy filling ourselves up with excellent food, Ophelia, Xander, and Myra chatter away in between bites. The whole table is picked clean within minutes- if you want seconds of _anything_ in this house _,_ ever, you have to eat fast, move fast, and think fast, because otherwise someone else will beat you to it.

Ophelia, Xander, and Myra leave the table all at once. Judging by how much they're giggling, I'd guess they're either going to go on yet another crazy adventure they've cooked up or just re-enact the ones we've already done. Either way, there's going to be a lot of nonsense going on in the small room they all sleep in over the next thirty minutes or so.

As for Zeke and I, we just, well, sit. Everyone else seems to have found a way to entertain themselves until bedtime- our siblings with whatever their game may be, and Mom and Dad with some ancient books they've had since well before I was born. Seeing nothing else to really do, I decide to just have a quick chat with Zeke, more out of necessity than anything else.

"Zeke? If- if the unthinkable happens tomorrow, I need you to agree to one thing. I'll do the same, if they do boys first instead of girls."

"What do you want me to agree to?"

"Don't volunteer into the Games to try and save me. It sounds crazy, but think about it this way: only one person can ever leave the Arena. If both of us are in the Game, logically, at least one of us has to die. And if we both wind up dead, whoever volunteered will have their sacrifice be completely pointless."

Zeke nods. "I agree. Mostly because, I may love you and all, but I don't want to die."

"Join the club."

With a tiny giggle, the two of us begin walking towards our room. Thankfully, while we don't have our own bedrooms, we have our own beds, so we don't bang into each other constantly. (Apparently, I move around a _lot_ when I sleep.)

As we pass by the room that Ophelia, Xander, and Myra all sleep together in, we hear snippets of conversation that, if they came out of an adult, would have them locked up in a mental asylum, no questions asked.

"But Captain Captain, what about the icebergs?"

"I told you, those are foam balls!"

"Those foam balls are walking!"

"Quick! Get the bleach!"

Quietly, we crawl into our individual beds, not even bothering to take off our clothes- it's too much effort. Then, everything begins to fade away.

"Tomorrow after Reapings, we climb that tree together?" Zeke asks this in between yawns.

Even though I _desperately_ don't want to do that, it feels like appropriate celebration for surviving another year. "Sure thing."

"Good night, Zari."

"See you in the morning, Zeke."

Then everything goes dark, and the world vanishes.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to EmberLex for sending me Zari.

-Just another note- while knowing the exact events of the previous Games (which happened offscreen) is not critical to the story, it will be referenced fairly heavily. If you would like a quick little _The Victor's Compendium_ style breakdown of the 94th Hunger Games (which immediately precedes this one), PM me, and I'll write one and send it over via DocX. (And if you don't know what _The Victor's Compendium_ is, search it up on here and read it, it's pretty good.)

-Coming up in the next chapter is DefoNotAFanGirl's first (and only) character, the D8F.

-This will be followed by the D12F, and both tributes from D5 (They were sent by the same person, so the order is probably interchangeable).

-See you next chapter!


	15. D8F: How to Save Someone From Themselves

**Chapter Fourteen: How to Save Someone From Themselves**

* * *

 **Holy Crap, Has Time Stopped or Something?**

* * *

 **Lacey Loveless, District Eight Female**

* * *

When I was thirteen, the psychologist at my school told me I almost certainly had a disorder that prevented me from feeling emotions properly.

Despite what I wanted to think, he was right.

I don't know when I first realized that I wasn't, well, _normal,_ per se. However, the first incident I could remember that matched the conditions that psychologist listed occurred when I was five years old. We'd all been clustered in a room for a class or something, when a pretty butterfly flew in front of the window. While everyone else (including the teacher) was admiring it (wildlife is pretty rare in this District, considering how terrible the environment is here), I watched it, but I didn't get hit with the wave of awe and surprise everyone else seemed to be experiencing.

I distinctly remember thinking, _I've never seen a butterfly before! How am I not excited?_

So, I tried to force myself to be excited, but it didn't work out. Once the butterfly finally flew away, everyone else settled down and we started up class again.

But I remained the same as always.

Now, I'm seventeen. I haven't felt actual happiness, _ever._ I can't get invested in a romance, meaning that not only have I never found my "true love," as most of the insane girls in my grade call it, I've never had my heart broken into pieces over a boy dumping me.

You know, most people would _want_ to not feel anything if some boy dumped them. But, I'm so used to not feeling anything, I'd rather get the sensation other girls say I'm supposedly going to feel if that happens: your heart apparently gets slowly ripped in two as you start crying over your loss. I'd rather that because at least then it would prove I was actually capable of feeling and displaying emotions.

Instead, I'm just a shell. Not an actual person, forget that, all I am is a robot that needs to breathe and eat on occasion.

I know what you're thinking. "Okay, Miss Sad Sack, I get it. Is that seriously all the bad things that happen when you don't have any emotions?"

No. That's far from the worst part.

You want to know the worst part?

Then buckle up. It's going to be a painful ride.

* * *

One day, when I was about three years old, I stole a piece of food off of a table that someone was working as a vender. At the time, you'd probably think, "that's not a big deal, you were a three-year-old who didn't really understand the concepts of ownership and money yet." But, even after my mother noticed what I'd done, returned it, and apologized profusely on my behalf, I didn't feel sorry for what I'd done.

Not. One. Bit.

And this feeling of total apathy towards everyone but myself just kept progressing. Pretty soon, I was hurting things and still feeling nothing. People came next- I left a trail of broken relationships behind me wherever I went in those days. And then-

I shake my head. _Let's not go there. Not yet._

So, this brings me to my big revelation. I feel like I'm ready, and like I've prepared long enough.

I'm volunteering into the Hunger Games this year.

Not for the fame and fortune and all the insane perks that come with it- for one, I could care less about all that crap, and two, the last victor we had was, what, eighteen Hunger Games ago? The seventy-seventh? Chances are, I'm not coming out of there alive.

But, I need it because I want to feel something- anything- before I die. If the Games don't change me emotionally, I can safely bet everything I own that nothing else will.

If I'm going out, I'm doing it in a blaze of glory.

However, I have one advantage as compared to nearly every outlier tribute in the Games: I've been preparing for this moment for years in advance, wanting to give myself as good of a chance as possible. This, I'll be going in with a huge advantage compared to everyone else, even though I'm probably going to be smaller than most of my competitors.

Today's the last day before I go in. So, even though one more day of prep isn't going to make or break me, I want to get it in.

For me, routine is everything.

* * *

Compared to the places the Careers train, my "training center" looks pitiful by comparison.

The only things I have to train with are a stubby little knife (which I liberated from a friend's junk drawer) and a beat-up mannequin (which I found in a back alley behind a clothing store and figured wouldn't be missed) that's covered in so many gashes that I'm surprised it hasn't gotten around to falling apart yet. It's also located in a dilapidated alley in a _very_ seedy part of town. I'm surprised no one's tried to mug me in the three years I've used this as a training spot (although I'm pretty confident that at this point I could fend them off with the knife if I really needed to).

The mannequin didn't come with a head, so I can't exactly train as if it were a person, but it's a good enough substitute for now. I can brush up before the Games if I really think I need extra practice. There aren't too many opportunities to watch TV around here, but on the few occasions that I can, just about everything on in Hunger Games-related in some way, and they make it pretty clear that everyone gets some training time before the Games so the outlying Districts aren't at a total disadvantage.

But, I can't focus on the Games yet. I still have today and tomorrow morning to get through. So, I heft the knife (not that that's very hard) and get to work on my dummy. I want to shout and scream curses at it while I do it, but the last thing I need is to attract a Peacekeeper. No matter _what_ they catch you doing, they will always find some way to punish you, and that's the last thing that I want when the thing I've desired is so close that I can practically taste it.

Finally, three heavy slices later, the mannequin finally gives in to temptation and collapses into a pile of cheap plastic. That's probably me getting signaled that it's time to pack up. So, I begin putting the pieces inside one of the numerous cardboard boxes that litter the alley, mostly because the worst thing you can do at a crime scene is leave evidence behind.

"Lacey, you seriously have nothing better to do than clean up an alley in this day and age?"

I would probably have jumped about five feet straight up if I hadn't recognize the voice. Instead, I just whirl around, realizing my best (and only) friend, Taffeta, has made another one of her "dramatic entrances." (Those entrances usually involve sneaking up behind me and making a snarky comment.)

"Can you stop doing that? I've told you I hate it when you do that at least a billion times."

"And I've responded to that request a billion and one times. I think it's pretty clear that I'm not going to stop, right?"

All I can do is shrug. That's one of the main reasons other people shy away from Taffeta- she can be _quite_ annoying at times.

"Come on. There's _got_ to be something you can do that's more interesting than this in your free time."

"Well, there probably is, I guess. Do you have any suggestions?"

She doesn't respond, instead, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me out of the alley as we walk towards the town square. I hide the knife in a pocket, not wanting anyone to see me with it for fear that they'll tell a Peacekeeper. Several creepy-looking characters eye us as we walk, but no one tries to talk to us, thankfully. Finally, we get out of that part of town and enter the smoky, bustling town center.

Coughing frequently due to all the nasty smoke in the air (the clothing and other factories here are far from environment-friendly) we manage to stumble to a curb so we can sit, which we find on accident, since the smoke is terrible if you want to actually see where you're going.

Finally, we're able to stop, although we keep our heads down as we talk so the smoke can't get into our eyes. That crap burns. Bad.

"Okay," I wheeze out, "what should we do?"

"How about go somewhere-" she stops and coughs several times before continuing- "other than here?"

"Maybe to my house? My parents probably won't mind," I say.

So we do that, hoping to get to a place where the air is at least a little bit clearer.

* * *

Soon, we arrive at my house (well, technically, my parents' house), a small, one-story thing with peeling blue paint, a couple of missing shingles, and a crooked chimney. However, at least we have a functional bathroom, which is more than a lot of kids in the District can say.

As I throw open the door, I look for people, namely, my parents. "Mom! Dad! I'm home! Are you there?"

No answer. There isn't even a door banging open to signify that someone's here. Meaning Mom and Dad are working late again, which has become more and more common as of recently.

"Okay then." I turn to Taffeta. "They probably won't mind you being here as long as we don't raid the pantry."

So, we quietly retreat to my room, a compact space with just enough room for a small bed (perfect for fitting my tiny body) and a small rack that holds the few outfits I have to my name. We just sit down on the bed, trying to figure out what to do on this currently boring day.

However, it appears we aren't really able to come up with anything. Neither of us feels like walking, we don't have a television at home, and it's not like I spend most of my time trying to figure out how I can have some fun- most of it goes towards school. (I know a lot of the girls in my District don't care about school- I do, mostly because there's not much else to do in this District and at least the work keeps me occupied.)

"I guess, just sit around and talk like we usually do?"

"That doesn't sound too bad."

* * *

At around sunset (which is nearly impossible to see through the smoke) Taffeta stands up and gets off my bed.

"See you tomorrow, Lacey," she says. "Hopefully, neither of us gets Reaped!"

Then, she vanishes into the shadows of the central room, where I left the lights off to save energy. I hear a door opening and closing, and then she's gone.

I immediately feel a nasty sensation in my stomach. I didn't ever get around to telling her I was planning on volunteering in. While part of that comes as a relief, since I know she'd be the kind of person who'd try to talk me out of it (in this District for my generation, people think getting sent into the Hunger Games is a suicide mission, since we don't have very many victors), part of me thinks, _Wow. Great job. She might never see you again after tomorrow and you didn't even have the decency to tell her._

Silently, I just sit on my bed for a few minutes before I realize that I'm starving. I haven't really eaten anything except for a piece of tesserae bread before I left to train for the last time. However, I know my parents will be home soon, and they may or may not have the energy after work to make a decent meal.

On second thought, I decide to just go for it. My parents go through a _lot_ so I don't have to get a job, and every little thing I can do for them is helpful. So, I hunt through the house for the first thing I can write on- a scrap of cardboard- and get a pen from the drawer where Dad keeps the supplies he uses to write letters.

I scrawl down a message for them: _Mom, Dad, I got hungry. Ate something quick. Don't worry about dinner for me, just rest. Love, Lacey._

I slapdash together a meager meal- another piece of tesserae bread, a handful of strawberries that look like they'll go bad any minute, a small square of white cheese, and a glass of water- and shovel the whole thing down. It's gone within five minutes, and within ten, there's no evidence I was ever at the table.

It's a good thing, too, for as soon as I'm finished cleaning up after myself, both my parents stagger in the door. They're not drunk, but they might as well be, considering that they're barely any more functional than a drunk after their jobs.

Mom squeezes out a quick little "Good evening, Lacey," before stumbling off in the direction of the bedroom that Mom and Dad share, presumably to go to sleep.

Dad doesn't even do that. He at least nods to acknowledge my existence, but he goes into the bedroom right after Mom. I can't blame either of them. Working in a textile mill, based on what I've learned from classes centered on going into a job like this, is a _very_ difficult thing to do, especially if you're working there twelve hours a day. If I had to do that for a living, I'd probably go nuts.

Hence, a silver lining of sorts for me volunteering. Whether I come out or not, I won't be stuck in a textile factory for the rest of my life.

Since everyone else is in bed at this point, I figure there's really nothing else to do. My parents are asleep; I'm not sure whether or not I should tell them about the Games. Like Taffeta, I'm afraid they're going to try and talk me out of volunteering. They'll probably think I've officially lost my mind.

But that's their business. Mine is to see if something can actually break me.

I quietly traipse back to my room, making sure to shut off all the lights before I slide myself into bed.

Tomorrow's my big day. It'll be the day that harbors either the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made in my life.

But all I know now is that only time will tell what comes out of this decision.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to DefoNotAFanGirl for sending in Lacey.

-We've officially passed a thousand views! Thanks to all who have read up to this point for helping me get there!

-Coming up next is the D12F, created by jupiter101. This will be followed by the D5F, the D5M, and the D6M.

-I hope to see you next chapter!


	16. D12F: Lurking in the Shadows

**Chapter Fifteen: Lurking in the Shadows**

* * *

' **Twas the Night Before Reapings**

* * *

 **Fox Angel, District Twelve Female**

* * *

When I took on this job, I was given three rules.

One, I was not to take anything from the premises. The man wanted nothing missing from the crime scene that could turn up later and become suspicious.

Two, I was to be as quick and efficient as possible. Get in, do what I had to do, get out. No detours, no wasting time, no anything.

And three, in case, by some freak accident, someone figured out it was me who did this, he wanted our connection as distant as possible. Thus, I was not to collect my payday for the job right away. Instead, I was to go to a back alley he'd shown me in exactly three weeks, where he would supposedly give me a jacket that had the rest of the money stuffed in the pockets.

I _really_ hope he's doing it just to make any connection between the two of us as distant as possible. Because he wouldn't be the first person to stiff me. And I can't call an impromptu job with him as my target, he's too well-known in the District. The person I was given as a target today is a nobody. Very few people, if any, will miss him. But this guy? He's got extended family everywhere (a few of them have hired me in the past for other jobs) so they know who I am and what I can do, _and_ they're the type of people who will give a big reward to the lucky searcher who finds me. I can't have that much of a spotlight on me.

But, no time to think about that now. I actually have to follow the advice I'm given. Get in and get out.

That would be so much easier if my vision wasn't so terrible. There's no moon tonight, and even if this was a guy who normally slept with their lights on, the electricity is completely unreliable here. Thus, I'm feeling my way around for the most part, hoping that there isn't a trip wire or something that'll set off an alarm. However, this is District 12, where people are more focused on getting food to eat than not getting murdered, so neither of those things happen to show up. After a few minutes, I can finally follow the sound of breathing into the bedroom.

My vision is a little better now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but I can still barely see for crap as I take in the room's surroundings. No windows- otherwise I would have come in through one of them. The bed is not a bed- just a cot with filthy sheets on it, covering an equally filthy person, who's blissfully unaware that he's not alone in the room, even as I approach.

I pull out the knife. Time to do this quickly. My success or failure rides on the next fifteen seconds or so.

I hover it over his neck for a second. Then, in one quick movement, I slash his throat, leaving a gaping opening in its place.

The next five or so minutes are all a blur. First, it's a mad scramble to escape the house, where I seem to have forgotten the way to the entrance I just used. Thankfully, this guy's not a screamer, but in the summer, where there's always a person or two outside for some reason, the risk of getting caught in the act is much higher.

Then, it's a frenzied dash through alleys and back routes, making sure to stay well out of the way of the town center. Even with the terrible vision I've been crippled with since birth, I'm still covering ground remarkably quickly. After about ten minutes, I arrive at a small lake I frequent. Once I get to the water's edge, I stop and throw the knife as far as I can. It spirals through the air before landing in the center of the lake with an audible splash.

I've been trained for scenarios like these my entire life. And the one thing my parents always used to tell me runs through my head:

 _Cover your tracks._

* * *

When my parents were still around, and before I was ever a hired killer, I used to be a daughter.

My parents were full-blown rebel stereotypes, especially before I was born and when this mysterious President Snow was in power. I haven't lived long enough to remember he things that he did, but apparently he was far worse than the current President could ever hope to be. However, even when he finally died and this new president took power three weeks later, my parents didn't stop. They thought that as long as we were subservient to the Capitol, we still hadn't attained the status we needed.

However, three years ago, there was a massive internal crackdown on rebels in each District. Some of it was orchestrated by the President, but most came from the Districts themselves. They thought that there wasn't really a reason to rebel anymore, since President Snow was dead and gone. However, whenever someone told them that, my parents used to shrug their heads and tell me, "Just because it's better by comparison doesn't mean it's good."

So, they'd trained me. They were part of a small rebel coalition designed to seek out and eliminate specific targets. So, once I turned eight, they taught me everything they knew, as fast as possible, not knowing if someone was plotting to kill them at the same time that they worked on getting rid of their targets.

One gray and cloudy morning, about a year after my training started, my parents came into our shared bedroom with a large box. It had enough food and water for a few days, a sharp knife, and one little pill. "So you don't have to use the bathroom," they told me.

"Wait," I'd said, "That's for me?"

"Yes," Daddy had said, "It's not safe for you to stay here anymore. We have to make sure you don't get hurt."

"But-"

Then Mommy turned to me with tear-streaked eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but we have to make sure your connection with us is as distant as possible. You know how the Peacekeepers treat people like us."

"Time to put your skills to the test," Daddy had said. Then, I had gotten into the box, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

That was the last I ever saw of my parents. They carried me to the train station that night, and put me on the first train that pulled in. Since most trains went to the Capitol, they assumed I'd end up there, where plenty of people (even the president) would be willing to hire (and pay handsomely for) a trained assassin, especially one as small and unassuming as me.

However, I ended up in District 12. Maybe they needed new sacks to bring up their coal in or something. I'll never know for sure.

But what I did know is that my old life ended and my new one started the moment I took my first inhale of the thick, choking air of District 12.

* * *

Fast forward three years, and you'll find me here.

Currently, it's only a few hours until the Reapings. I've been waiting for the market to open for a while, so I can actually have something to eat before standing in the square with everyone else before the Reaping. It isn't like I'll get picked or anything- as far as the District is concerned, I don't exist. I even snuck into the mayor's office one night a few weeks back to be sure. No public records, no instances of my name that I could find on the cobbled-together computer that stored the entire District's information, no nothing. Meaning I don't have any slips in the bowl.

I don't plan on taking tesserae, even if I'm desperate- I don't want to have my name in a file somewhere in case I get caught on a job. Thus, I've had to resort to eating scraps the wealthier citizens have thrown out when I'm in between jobs, or, in this case, running a little low on funds.

However, I have enough money on hand to make it through a couple more days before I'll have to go there. Again.

I could, of course, head outside the town proper and into the woods to kill some time, but I don't want to do that today unless I absolutely have to. On this day in particular, the woods are swarming with Peacekeepers who are trying to catch people hoping to skip the Reapings. And I don't want to test my odds against a Peacekeeper in the middle of the night, especially since I'm at the age where this would be my first Reaping.

I can already tell it's going to be an absolute scorcher, with heat baking the dusty ground in waves and not even a stifling breeze to break it up. It'll probably even worse down in the mines, considering they don't get any fresh air and every breath they take is choked with coal dust.

Even though no one knows I'm here, I'll probably still be forced into the mines at some point if this keeps up. I don't know how those workers do it. Just from the amount of horror stories I've picked up from hearing conversations in the market, I never want to _enter_ the mines, let alone spend twelve hours each day in them.

The first workers begin to trickle into the market to their respective stalls, in whatever ways they can. Some hobble, some limp, some are helped by friends just to make it the short distance. The only reason they can even work up here is because the mines have chewed them up and spit them out. Everyone here is a cripple. Probably forever. There are only three reasons an adult has for not working in the mines: they either run a successful business for the upper class, have children who can't care for themselves, or they physically cannot work down there due to their various disabilities. Most people here fall under the third type.

I decide to give them a few extra minutes- going into the market the second it opens automatically makes people dislike you. I don't care about many things, but staying on good terms with the people who keep me fed (for the most part, anyway) is one of them.

The place, thankfully, is pretty empty today, for most people are concerned about the Reapings, not whether or not they'll run out of something and have to make a quick trip to the market. And most of the people who work there just stay home today- they know they're barely going to make money today, if at all, because there aren't going to be any buyers.

However, there are two workers there today: a lady who I've never seen before, and a guy the entire town just calls The Old-Timer. I've never seen him miss a market day, ever. Even when there was three feet of snow on the ground last winter, he managed to wade his way through to the market, where he stood for two hours before someone saw him and said, "The market's closed today! No one's coming. Get inside before you freeze to death or something!"

Thankfully, he did listen, otherwise he probably wouldn't be standing here today. I know that for a fact, because the only reason _I_ survived that winter was because I spent most of it after that fateful day huddled in a slightly-warmer-than-outside cave just outside the (supposedly) electric fence with a stockpile of food, only kept from freezing by a thin coat that held up against the elements surprisingly well. I could have just gone to the orphanage if I really needed to, but again, I desperately wanted to avoid putting my name into a database.

About ten minutes after the market opens (and it still being pretty empty) I make my move and stride up to the stand being manned by the woman I've never seen before. Not being recognized by anyone will help me keep my identity a secret, as no one will know exactly who they're looking for information about.

The lady is pretty nice, all things considered. With my last bit of money, I manage to get enough food that I can probably make it last for a week if I do a good job rationing it. As for the other two weeks- I'll do something. Pick apples just outside the fence, eat flowers, catch bugs- I may be hungry a lot, but I've never come close to starving. Food here is plentiful if you know what you're doing.

So, I duck into a space between two houses, well it of sight of the average person, and scarf down a small portion of raw vegetables before quietly storing the rest of my food in a little bag gifted to me by an employer after one of my jobs.

Then, I notice the first people beginning to trickle into the town square. The Reapings must be a lot closer than I thought. Again, not that I'll ever get picked (because as far as I'm concerned, no one even knows that I exist) but I still need to go through the motions and stand in the square with everyone else when the escort picks our tributes.

Again, the Peacekeepers here are the type of people that you want to be around for as minimal a time period as possible.

So, as everyone begins to cluster into their respective groups in the square, I decide to try and find the section meant for twelve-year-olds. Could I pass for someone who isn't eligible? Probably. Do I want to take any chances? No way. Not here.

There aren't that many kids in this section yet- only a couple. All of them are nervous. Some are trying to hide it by chattering away like their life depends on it. At least two are crying. One kid is rocking back and forth, not saying a word, holding her head. Normally, I'd think that they all look ridiculous, considering their odds, but I've seen enough of the Hunger Games to know that three of the four kids picked in the last two years were thirteen or younger. And none of them cracked the final eight, either. We're not exactly known for sending in contenders every year.

Soon, the square is full almost to bursting. Everyone is wearing a uniform expression of despair. Most of the parents are sobbing, even more so than the kids. In fact, most of the kids seem like they're taking this better than their parents. Sure, most of them are probably terrified out of their minds too, but at least they're doing a much better job at masking it.

But what do I even have left to fear at this point? The Capitol has already done their worst to me. Even if I somehow hit the Hunger Games, all it will do is give me the opportunity to hurt them the way that they hurt me, and presumably my parents. (While I have no idea whether or not they are dead or alive, I don't have the nerves- or the technology- to be able to look up their names in a database and check.)

Everyone else- besides these parents- seem to share that same mentality. They're all world-weary, beaten down, and sick of life. I know I'm already all three of those things, and that's disconcerting coming from a twelve-year-old.

Any minute now, the escort's going to manage to drag their sorry self out onto the stage, and go through the motions of the speech and the name drawing and everything else. If anything, they're just living proof that anything that comes to District Twelve instantly gets any sense of fun and whimsy sucked out of it.

Including me.

So, even though the kids around me are nervously talking, I'll still be the outlier here. In fact, I can sum up my emotions right now in one word.

 _Whatever._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry for taking an eternity and a half to come out with this chapter. I got hit with a nasty case of the flu, and thus, I've been sidelined up until today, so I could finally finish. I'm going back to school tomorrow and it looks like the next week is going to be quite busy when I take in all the work I'm going to have to make up and the tests I'm going to have. I'll try to create time to write, though.

-Thanks to jupiter101 for sending in Fox. Coming up next is their second tribute, the D5F. That will be followed by the D5M, D6M, and D11F.

-Thanks for sticking it out. See you next chapter!


	17. D5F: Keeping the Chaos in Order

**Chapter Sixteen: Keeping the Chaos in Order**

* * *

 **Defying The Laws of Chronology is Fun!**

* * *

 **Catarina Lynn, District Five Female**

* * *

Sometimes, I wish my parents hadn't been so pro-children.

I was born first. It happened less than two years after they got married. After that, the avalanche of kids just kept coming. Three years later, I had a little brother. Three years after that, a little sister. One year later (they barely waited after my little sister was born for that one) I had another little brother- the list goes on and on, until our tiny house became home to nine people.

Then, six months to he day after my last sibling was born, my father left the house, saying he was going to get milk, and never came back.

Everyone has their own theories about why he left. Squirrel, the oldest with any sense at the time, still thinks that aliens abducted him. That makes slightly less sense than Rush's theory (he's only two years older), which is that he was kidnapped by a group of malevolent ninjas armed with swords and slingshots.

However, the rest of us have come to a shaky consensus that either one of two things makes the most sense: he either just couldn't deal with the stress anymore, or the Peacekeepers killed him for reasons we probably will never know.

Either way, he's not here. Meaning that Mom and I have to do our best to deal with six other kids. They're pretty easy most of the time, but keeping an eye on all of them gets taxing fast. And doing it for hours on end, especially when Mom's at work and I have to do it solo, is downright exhausting. I have no idea how we'd get through this without each other.

It's even worse now that school is out. Since Mom doesn't get those eight hours or so to herself (for the most part- Minnie, my youngest sibling, isn't old enough to be enrolled in school yet) she's stuck with all of us 24/7.

Most of the time, she pulls through with her usual charm and humor. However, there are times where that wears off. And when it does, it's never pretty.

I just hope that today will not be that day.

* * *

As of now, it's ten-o-clock in the morning. Jake, who's four, and Myra, who's nine, are both out with friends (well, Myra is out with friends and Jake has been dropped off at a friend's house). Mom's currently holding Minnie (who's only two) while she's trying to do her job, which is taking calls for a power plant (thankfully, most days she doesn't have to go in to work anymore, she can just do her work from home). Rush (who's eight) currently has control of the television (since that's one of the things we're most prone to arguing about, we have to reserve a specific hour on paper if we actually want to watch anything), Carter (who's twelve) is making sure Squirrel (who's six) doesn't get into the laundry chemicals again (last time that happened, we all had to rush him off to the emergency room), and I'm just kind of standing around, since everyone else is taking care of each other for right now. Breaks like these are incredibly rare in this house, so I'm just trying to make the most of mine.

So, as of now, I'm sitting in the kitchen/dining room, taking in the mess around me. A jumble of shoes is laid out by the front door. One of Jake's half-finished drawings is still on the table (I have no idea what the hell it's supposed to be) along with a mostly-finished kid's puzzle Squirrel started an hour ago and then abandoned. The breakfast plates are still stacked high on the counter. Before I can take in anything else, though, I'm subconsciously moving towards the dishes and throwing open cabinets looking for a sponge. I curse myself for not making the most of my break, but after a year and a half of essentially being a mother, you start to gravitate towards problems that need fixing on your own.

The dishes only take about ten minutes to clean (thankfully, today was not Pancake Day- syrup takes _forever_ to scrub off a plate) but in that time, Rush has finished Squirrel's puzzle for him, Squirrel has taken over the television in his absence, Carter has taken Minnie off of Mom's hands and Jake's drawing has mysteriously vanished. Thankfully, Jake has a _really_ bad short-term memory, even for his age group, meaning he probably won't even notice that the drawing's gone missing.

I hear Mom's voice coming from the room, saying, "No, thank you. Have a good day," before she hangs up and passes Minnie off to me. Unfortunately, I'm not very large, meaning that even though Minnie's pretty light for her age, I have to set her down after a few minutes. She needs to get more experience with walking anyway.

As soon as I set her down, she wanders over into the room where Squirrel is currently watching something and plops down next to him. Seeing nothing else to really do right now but watch her, I follow suit, staring at the screen as I try and figure out the nonsense that Squirrel has on.

It's not Hunger Games-related, thankfully. Which is surprising, considering that the Reapings are tomorrow. (Carter's currently on a hair trigger, since it's his first year in the pool and it's not unheard of for really young kids to get picked here.)

As for me, I know I have a legitimate shot at getting picked, especially since we've had to start taking tesserae after Dad left. I sympathize a lot with Carter, considering what I was like last year. Last year, I was a nutcase for the week before the Reapings- prone to snapping at the slightest provocation, super jumpy, and overall just a nervous wreck. Thus, when I didn't wind up getting picked, all I felt was relief that it wasn't me and I'd survive another year. (Although, when they showed interviews, I felt terrible for the tiny thirteen-year-old who got picked- she wound up breaking down in tears before her interview was half over. Some of the security had to drag her off the stage so she could calm down enough to finish.)

Oh, right, Squirrel's nonsensical show. There's currently a bunch of grown adults in costumes staring at a paper cutout (which is supposed to be the sun) and they're trying to figure out what it is. All I can think is, _if this is supposed to be the sun, how are these people not burning their eyes out right now?_

Without even noticing until a few minutes in, I slip into the familiar rhythm of alternating between checking on Minnie and staring mindlessly at the television.

Once more, this day is starting to blend into the hazy mess of rituals that defines every day of summer break for me.

* * *

An hour later, Squirrel's ridiculous show has been swapped out for Minnie's slightly less ridiculous show.

However, calling it a "show" would be generous. It's just a bunch of toddlers talking to each other and asking questions at a screen for half an hour. They claim this makes the show "interactive" for really young kids (Minnie seems to take it that way, since she keeps responding to their questions), but for me, it becomes _really_ grating, fast, especially since a good chunk of the questions are recycled from episode to episode to add time.

Jake and Myra have both gotten back from their friends' houses- Jake is watching the show with Minnie and each of them are shouting increasingly louder to try and make their response get heard over the other one. Eventually, it reaches a volume that, even though Mom isn't on a call at the time, I can't take it anymore. So, I stand up and block the television, before telling them, "If you want me to move away, be quieter. Please. Mom has to work."

Minnie can't really understand most of what I'm saying, but Jake understands enough to put a finger to his lips and say, "Shhhhh!" to Minnie. Since my message has been translated into something she can comprehend, Minnie says the same thing back, quietly answering the next question. Thus, I hold up my end of the bargain, and move out of the way.

So far, today has passed by with relative ease. But it's only lunchtime. Speaking of which, I should probably get Carter so we can start that. (Mom, as much as she hates to admit it, is an awful cook- her chicken with rice looked and tasted more like rocks with sand. Thus, me and Carter, since we're the only ones who can be counted on to use a stove without burning down the house, do most of the cooking now.)

Thankfully, most of lunch is cold anyway. There's nothing to really cook. Everyone's going to just eat a sandwich and get over it. Again.

* * *

It takes about fifteen minutes, but soon enough, Carter and I have finished assembling all the sandwiches, which are currently all in a row on the wobbly kitchen table. I grab mine, Carter snatches his, and then everyone else pours into the room, inspects each sandwich to check if it's theirs, and takes a bite out of the correct sandwich when they find it. (I have to give Minnie her sandwich, since she'll take a bite out of the sandwiches she inspects whether they're hers or not.)

Mom stumbles in last, clearly having just come out of a call. Hastily, she takes the only remaining sandwich, and only finishes about half of it before the phone rings again and she has to disappear into another room.

For a few minutes, the kitchen is filled with nothing but the sound of chewing, and after that, the kitchen is filled with a mess of plates and it's time for me to clean them up again. (Carter and Myra can help with this, but everyone else would honestly be doing more harm than good if they tried.)

Five more minutes later, the three of us have scrubbed the dishes clean, and they're resting in a precarious stack on the counter. As long as we keep Squirrel, Jake, and Minnie away from the counter for a little while, we should be fine.

So far, so good. Only ten more hours to go.

* * *

The afternoon slowly slogs onward as the sun begins to set in a hazy sky. The television changes channels every hour on the hour so everyone gets a chance to watch something. I drop Rush and Squirrel off at friends' houses for something they had planned together for right after lunch, and Carter leaves to pick them up two hours after I get back. Mom rarely ever leaves the room she takes calls in, only seeing daylight when she goes to the kitchen to refill her plastic water bottle. Minnie and Jake just wander around the house, with either me or Carter tailing them the entire time. Myra sets up a difficult puzzle, gets halfway, gives up, and dismantles it. All in all, a typical summer day in the Lynn household.

Finally, at around six o'clock in the evening, Mom finishes up her final call and staggers out of the room. She has the delirious look in her eyes I've seen sometimes after her shift, and something based on how bleary her eyes look makes me think that she's not entirely there.

"Is… is everything okay?" She blinks a couple of times after saying this, clearly fighting the urge to get into bed and pass out.

Carter takes the opportunity to respond first. "As far as I can tell, yes."

Myra goes next. "I think everything's fine."

Finally, it's my turn. "No one's hurt, no one's crying, and no one's eaten anything they shouldn't. I think that's enough to classify everything as okay."

Mom yawns loudly. "Good. Do I need to make something so you guys can eat?"

I decide to nip that one in the bud, right then and there. "No, we'll be fine. We can fend for ourselves tonight." Again, I don't want to hurt her feelings, because that's something she just doesn't have the emotional capacity to deal with right now, but her cooking is terrible. The quality of her cooked meals falls into a range from "disgusting, but you can probably keep it down" to "absolutely inedible."

Looking inside the fridge, it soon becomes obvious there isn't much food to be had that hasn't been set aside for after the Reapings. All that's left it half a gallon bottle of water, something in a storage container, a hunk of cheese, and a thermos of coffee with maybe one sip left.

Thankfully, the container is filled to the brim with lettuce, so we can at least claim that what we're making is a salad, rather than having to explain to everyone that our dinner is literally nothing but cheese and water. While Carter passes me one knife to start chopping up the lettuce, he grabs another to slice the cheese into chunks.

Five minutes later, everyone's been served a small chunk of lettuce and cheese posing as salad, including Mom. A few minutes after that, everyone has finished and left us with (guess what!) more plates to clear.

Fortunately for us, Mom's available to help this time, and she's much faster than all of us are, so this time it takes less than half as long as usual. Thus, in less than five minutes, all the dinner plates are in a sparkling-clean stack, pushed against the back wall so they don't get knocked off the counter.

The day's almost done. We're in the home stretch.

* * *

The evening drags by with the same sluggish pace as the afternoon. The sun sets, causing the electric lights to all turn on. (Mom set them so they only come on after sunset to save electricity- considering so much of it goes to the television, that's a pretty smart move, in my book.) Everyone starts trickling into the rooms we share (all the boys share one bedroom, all the girls share another, and Mom has one room all to herself since Dad left) to go to sleep. Myra shows Mom a drawing she made right before she goes to bed, and she pretends to act amazed by it (although I can't make heads or tails of what the heck it's supposed to be). By ten o'clock, I'm the only person still awake.

Without making a sound, I turn off the television, causing the room to go blissfully silent. Nothing's on at this time of night anyway except Capitolites drooling over the impending Reapings. Which I don't want to watch, in any way, shape, or form.

I get all the cheer the Capitolites have for the Hunger Games, since nobody they know dies because of it. However, it's not so fun when there's a person in the Games who was a friend, a relative, a classmate, hell, even a neighbor. In fact, the boy who was sent in last year (one of the strongest tributes from our District in years) lived only a couple of blocks away. (I found out when he made it to the final eight and the neighborhood was wrapped up in a media frenzy as everyone with even the slightest bit of relation to him was interviewed.)

Unfortunately, he would go on to die two days later in 4th place- one place short of a spot in the finale. And District Five was left without a victor for the umpteenth year in a row.

 _Forget about the Reapings,_ I have to tell myself. _Think happy thoughts or they'll only get worse._

Trying to follow that very philosophy, I wander into the girls' room, where both Myra and Minnie are already sound asleep. In a few minutes, it'll be my turn.

Slipping under the covers, I try to do nothing but think happy thoughts.

 _Today went so well compared to normal standards…_

 _We actually had three meals today…_

 _We'll all be safe after tomorrow for another year…_

In between one thought in the next, my eyelids get heavy, and the world fades to black.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I don't have much to say, except thanks for sticking with me. I'll try to pick up the pace a little from now on.

-Thanks to jupiter101 for sending in Catarina.

-Next is the D5M. After that comes the D6M and the D11F.

-See you next chapter!


	18. D5M: Forget the Past, Embrace the Future

**Chapter Seventeen: Forget the Past, Embrace the Future**

* * *

 **Whatever Clock This is Based Off is Really Screwed Up!**

* * *

 **Spark Emmersen, District Five Male**

* * *

Okay, I hate to admit it, but my life's been Anxiety Central for the last few months.

First, I finally managed to work up the courage to propose to my current fiancée, Mel. If everything goes well, we're set to be married as soon as I turn eighteen, which is in a little less than two months. I'm pretty confident that saying that an incoming marriage causes stress is not a statement you can really make an argument against.

Second, final exams, which occurred a week before that. It was ridiculously hard, especially the practical part of the exam, where we were given a mess of wires, metal, and other things, alongside a handful of tools, and were told, "make a generator that consistently works and is as efficient as possible." We only had three hours to do that. Thankfully, I somehow passed, even though that means I have to prepare for next year.

And third? It's the summer. Everything goes haywire in the summer. Without question.

Last summer, one of the major suppliers of power for not just the area, but for all of Panem, failed, causing nationwide power outages that even the Capitol wasn't immune from. The summer before that, we had repeated electrical storms that caused power surges that were so bad, people reported that lightbulbs were shattering in their homes during them. The summer before that… I think you know where this is going.

Needless to say, after exams were over, everyone my age could breathe a sigh of relief, whether they passed the exams or not. School was over. They had a break until the fall, when they either would go back to school, if they passed, or start hunting for a job, if they didn't.

The sky above me is not very pleasant, being filled with dark clouds and surely meaning a rainstorm is coming. Unsurprisingly, very few people are on the streets at this time of day, and those who are look like they're in a hurry.

However, those thoughts get shoved to the side as I walk towards Mel's front door.

* * *

By the time I reach her door, I've been hit over the head with several fat raindrops and thunder has started rumbling off in the distance. Considering it's only late June and we've had several bad thunderstorms already, I wouldn't be surprised if this summer were to repeat or even top the summer two years ago in terms of nasty weather.

As soon as I step underneath the overhang that covers Mel's front door, one especially loud clap of thunder occurs and the rain starts to pour down in sheets. It's like the storm held off, just for me.

I knock, the faded wood on the door making a noise that probably should never come out of a door, under any circumstances. (Mel still lives with her parents, like I do with mine, and they don't replace anything until it literally falls apart from age. Since Mel and I are both saving so that we can move out and find a place to live on our own as soon as possible, we don't have the money to fix the thing.)

Mel doesn't answer, but her father does. His hair is standing straight up, and the smell of smoke pours out of the front entrance.

"Hey there, Spark," he says. "Sorry about-" he points to the small room used as a sitting room- "that. I may have made a _slight_ voltage miscalculation on my latest project."

He beckons me to come in, and I get to see his "latest project." Or at least what's left of it. Metal and rubber parts litter the floor all around the smoking frame, and there are several more noticeable dents in the green wallpaper than usual. Thankfully, he puts a tarp over it, to not only block it from the view of any visitors, but to prevent the smoke detector from going off. That's a relief, since the amount of noise that comes out of that thing competes quite nicely with that of a train engine next to a megaphone (although I guess that's its purpose)

Mel's room is at the back of the house, and it's where she spends most of her time nowadays. It's pretty small, with just a twin bed, a rack where she keeps the meager amount of clothes she owns, a single picture of her as a nine-year-old hanging above said rack, and a big window that gives her a fantastic view of… not much, actually.

So, when I knock on the closed door (which is only in slightly better shape than the one up front), it's not very surprising when she answers right away. Her jaw essentially drops to the floor when she sees me. After taking a few seconds topics it back up, she finally regains her ability to speak.

"Hey, Spark," she says, "What's up?"

"I don't know," I say back, "I just wanted to see you."

"That's fine with me," she replies.

So, there's not really much we can do in here but talk. Therefore, we sit down on the edge of her twin bed (causing the ancient springs to creak like crazy) and make sure to face each other as we begin to do it.

"So, how's life?" Mel's life is pretty self-explanatory- wake up, see how far her father has gotten on his invention, go to school, come home from school, help father with invention, eat, and sleep. The same routine proliferates every day (except maybe today, since it's the summer and we all have a break from school).

"It's going fine. How did your exams go?"

She giggles a little. "Somehow, I passed. Unfortunately, the kid next to me couldn't say the same thing. When he turned on his generator to test it, the thing exploded! I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to laugh or cry about that."

Well, the good news about that is that it means I have one fewer person to compete with on next year's exams, where only the top handful are preferred to fill the District's best jobs. However, if I do poorly on that same exam, it means one more spot is already filled in the field of less-than-desirable jobs.

"I passed, too. So, I guess we'll be in classes together next year, which will be _really_ awkward, considering we'll be married."

"Yeah, it's going to be really tough to avoid breaking the 'No Public Displays of Affection' rule," she says, trying unsuccessfully to stifle another laugh.

"I don't think we'll go _that_ far," I respond back. "Remember what happened to Andrew and Lulah?"

Andrew and Lulah made up the school's hot-topic couple, before we became that couple. Everyone saw them holding hands in the hallways and giggling over something that no one else heard. Everyone saw them sit as close as possible to each other in the classes they shared. _Everyone_ saw them kiss at least twice in the school hallways while the teachers weren't looking. (Mostly because that happened at least six times a day, every day, five days a week. It's just the law of averages that you'd see it every now and again.)

However, their parents disapproved of the two of them marrying so young when they asked. It was just another Romeo and Juliet story. (Thankfully, unlike Romeo and Juliet, neither of them died- the romance just kind of fizzled out once they realized that it would be at least three years before they could take the next step.)

"Never mind. You want to do something while we wait out the rain?" She points to the window, where the nasty electrical storm I barely missed is raging outside. As if to exaggerate her point, a deafening clap of thunder ripples through the house, and the lights flicker for a second.

"Sure thing. You still have that domino set from last time?"

The dominoes are already spread out on the covers. "Is that a rhetorical question? I've had them since I was six."

"Of course. First to a hundred points?"

"You're on."

* * *

The storm has faded to a sleepy drizzle, the thunder has moved on, and sunlight starts making its way back through the windows by the time the game is starting to wrap up. Dominoes, while fun, takes a really long time to finish.

At long last, I push one final domino into place. "That's worth fifteen points, and… I think I have a hundred now?"

Mel's been writing down the scores on a sheet of leftover paper, and she quickly scans it before turning to me. "Actually, that's a hundred and ten points for you. You still win."

I resist the urge to fist-pump. I almost _never_ beat her at dominos. "Time to add that to the running total."

It's odd, but we keep a running total of every game of dominos we've ever played since the age of seven. It's one of the goofy childhood traditions we have that just refuses to die out, even if it's a little ridiculous.

I pull the paper off of the top of the rack, where we keep it so it doesn't get taken by someone else for something, and add one to my number. "Currently, the score is forty-two for me-" My voice trails off a little as I realize I haven't made a dent in my deficit- "and two hundred and ninety-one for you."

"Maybe I should get a game that's a little more balanced or something," she says.

"It's fine. It's still fun to play! But I should probably head home before my parents start freaking out. It _is_ getting a little late."

"I understand. See you at the Reapings tomorrow!" She replies back quickly, trying to hide her dismay about the Reapings. We wouldn't be the first girlfriend and guy-friend couple to get reaped in.

I hustle out the door, hoping that the rain holds off again for long enough so that I don't get soaked.

* * *

If you don't count sweat, I make it home without getting wet.

It's starting to get dark by now, so every light in the house- or at least most of them- are blazing at full brightness. (Thankfully, electricity is reliable enough here- considering we source electricity for the freaking _Capitol_ reliability is something that we have to have.)

The house, unsurprisingly, is empty. Mom must've had to work late again. As if to prove that point, I notice a note on the kitchen table, saying "I'll be out really late tonight. Don't forget to eat. Make sure you have something clean. Mom."

Ever since Dad "disappeared" on us two years ago, Mom's had to pull more and more late nights in order to make sure we actually have things to eat. And that, you know, those things are _edible._

I wish Dad was still home.

Great. Now I've essentially triggered a flashback to the day he "went missing"…

* * *

He walked out the door, saying he needed to go for a walk and stretch his legs, and just never returned home.

Obviously, we went to the Peacekeepers about it, asking where the hell he was. They claimed that they'd seen a well-known street gang named Formido et Sanguis (apparently, the members all knew Latin for some inexplicable reason, they told us) kidnap him on the street and were "looking into" the matter. But nothing ever came of it.

As days turned to weeks turned to months, we knew he was gone for good. But that's when we needed more specific answers. And just based on the gang name, the reasoning we got that day seemed more than a little suspect.

Whenever I didn't have school or Mom didn't have work, we'd take to the streets and ask anyone if they knew about Formido et Sanguis. The more we asked and the more "what the heck are you talking about" looks we received, the more suspect we grew.

Then, we made a startling discovery in the house. When we began to finally clean out Dad's side of the room, we stumbled across a lockbox under his bed that required multiple keys to open. The master key we had for the doors at home didn't open it, and neither did the house key.

However, hidden in the bottom of his underwear drawer (which probably was the one place Mom would have never looked) we found a necklace with two keys attached to it. Using those keys, we managed to open the box. What was in there changed our lives permanently.

If you wanted to take down the Capitol, that box would be a treasure trove. There were maps displaying the patrol patterns of Peacekeepers, comprehensive lists of who to go to and how much to pay to make different illegal items (bombs, tasers, hand grenades, guns, etc.), train schedules for inter-District travel, a list of Peacekeepers you could pay off to throw others off your trail, a map labeling every meeting place for others with similar personalities… the list just kept going.

Naturally, the first thing we did was burn all the evidence. If anyone had caught us with even a quarter of the stuff that was in there, we would have been executed on the spot (and probably have it framed to look like another murder by "Formido et Sanguis" or whatever.)

Then, we tried to go back to what we thought were normal lives. But after seeing that, I wondered if those who wanted to take down the Capitol had a point- the Capitol wasn't infallible, they had weaknesses-

* * *

 _Get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head…_

I have to repeat that over and over until the memories are finally gone. If the Capitol had a way to read thoughts, I'd already be dead. Staying under the radar is a top priority.

It's not like I can do anything on my own, anyway. Too many obstacles, too few workarounds.

Finally, all traces of those memories are gone, for now at least. I take about two steps towards the cabinets to make something quick for dinner and almost pass out on the floor. I take that as a sign it's time for bed. Luckily enough, I already checked on my outfit for the Reapings this morning, so I know it's ready for tomorrow.

I don't even make it to my bedroom, instead choosing to pass out on the couch.

It sags a little as I flop onto it, but stays intact, as always. Not even bothering with a blanket or pillow, I just go to sleep right then and there.

Tossing and turning, I manage to force my eyes closed before everything goes still once more.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I'm very, very sorry I've gone so long without updating. School has been a nightmare for a few weeks. In between tests, homework, AP Exam preparations, _and_ a fight that got so bad the police had to be called in, I just haven't had a ton of time (or motivation) to write. Finally, I got hit with a stroke of inspiration a few hours ago, and banged out most of the chapter.

-Thanks to jupiter101, again, for sending in Spark.

-Coming up next is DMonkey1607's first tribute, the D6M. After that comes the D11F and the D7F.

-Almost through the intro push... let's just say that if I ever do a second SYOT, I'll have to figure out a way to make these shorter.

-See you next chapter (hopefully soon!).


	19. D6M: Top of the Food Chain

**Chapter Eighteen: Top of the Food Chain**

* * *

 **emiT si gnivom sdrawkcab, yltnerappa!**

* * *

 **Remi Hamick, District Six Male**

* * *

I know I have a good life.

I mean, there's always food to eat in the fridge, the electricity almost never fails in the house, and we have running water, plenty of spare time, and typically don't have to worry about some insane Peacekeeper killing off our entire family in a second.

All of this is possible (at least, for us) thanks to the Capitol's charity. Currently, my father works as a government official, and what the Capitol provides us for his services is more than enough to live a comfortable life. And I'm thankful to them for that.

I mean, who wouldn't be?

Anyway, the apartment is still busy, despite the fact that, as of now, only two people are inside it. So far, today's been as close to "normal" as it gets in here.

"Mom, can I get something to eat?" It _is_ lunchtime, and I _am_ starting to get hungry again.

"Sure, Remi. Just about everything is in the fridge," she says.

Smiling, I walk to the fridge to look for something to eat. Needless to say, it's stuffed to bursting with many different kinds of delicious food. I'm not sure which of the things in there I like best, so I just take a little bit of just about everything and pile it on a plate.

Even with me trying to stretch out the time everything's in my mouth, it doesn't take long for it to be finished. So, I just put the place on top of the sink, like I'm used to, and let loose a colossal belch. "Sorry about that, Mom."

I'm the only kid in the house right now- Jacob and Fiona, my two younger siblings, are both out with friends. Come to think of it, it'd probably make sense to do the same thing as they are right now, considering that the Reapings are tomorrow. (My chances of getting Reaped are low, but, as everyone I know stresses, they're not zero.)

"Mom, can I go out for a little?" Hopefully, I can just walk to wherever everyone else is. The sections of town we tend to hang out in aren't very big.

"Just be back in time for dinner," Mom says.

"Will do, Mom," I say as I hustle out the door.

* * *

Thankfully, I have to walk less than a mile before someone I know comes into sight. However, it's not the happy reunion that I usually get.

Kiara, a close friend of mine, is currently waiting quietly outside a car dealership, just standing still and staring at some invisible spot on the ground. Moving closer, I can tell she's trying to hold back tears. Even if she's attempting to hide it, it's super obvious.

"Is everything okay?" I try to whisper this, but maybe I am a tiny bit too loud. Kiara cringes away from the noise, and then she turns to face me. "And before you say everything is, you know I can keep secrets," I add.

Kiara sniffles a little. Then, she collapses onto a curb. Even though that thing has to be sharp and pointy from so many people stepping on and cracking it, she doesn't even wince or cry in pain. Or at least it isn't noticeable, given her current expression.

She turns to me, and starts talking in between quiet sobs. "We just- just found out that my father- he's a morphling addict. Mom- she walked in on him with a vial in his arm, and then she found a whole bunch of empty ones hidden in the closet- and- and-"

"And what?"

Kiara takes a long, deep breath, and then screams up to the sky. And holy crap, can she scream. It's so bad I have to cover my ears and grit my teeth to try and keep it from ever being broadcast in my memories. Someone leans out from an apartment about three stories above us and throws a glass bottle out the window at us, yelling, "Shut up, street rats!" The sheer nerve!

Then, Kiara starts talking like a normal person again. "She began screaming in his face about- about- about how this was what they never wanted to happen and how he could be so- so careless and stupid-"

Clearly, this is leading up to some form of a horrific climax. "This just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?"

"YES!" Kiara's clearly lost it. Considering the crap she's describing, I don't blame her. "Then she started punching and kicking him, and she forced him out of the house-"

"Jeez, I didn't know a woman could do that to a guy-"

"NOT THE TIME!" She's currently so worked up that I can practically see steam rising from every crevice on her body.

"Sorry about that, go on-"

"And then- then- then-" she's sobbing uncontrollably at this point- "he started screaming about how she was such a bitch and that he was never coming back. Then- then he just walked out of the apartment building."

That does sound like a pretty horrible thing to say, but something tells me he'll probably be back by the end of the week. Most people are prone to making threats they aren't going to carry through when they're drunk (or in this case, high) and upset. My father is generally a decent person, but when he has too much alcohol in his system, he's prone to getting into shouting matches with Mom for seemingly no reason. Fortunately, none of these bouts have resulted in a physical altercation- at least, yet.

Kiara just keeps going on. "Sorry about that, Remi, I just needed someone to vent to," she says.

"Totally understandable. I've done that more than once."

Kiara wipes a tear away, then walks in the other direction, presumably to go back to her apartment.

However, I have to go on. I don't know how long I've been here and I still want to get back in time for dinner.

* * *

After about half an hour of walking under a scalding summer sun, I somehow manage to find everyone else. The second they see me, their mouths fall open and their eyes go wide.

That's not surprising in the slightest, however. We're spread so far apart that even getting most of us together (outside of school) is near impossible. Our house is lucky enough to have a working phone, but not everyone I know has one, and the phone lines, even in the nicer parts of town, have the annoying tendency to stop working when you're in the middle of a conversation. Thus, all meetings we have are organized almost exclusively by word of mouth.

I sit down next to Gerald, one of the three of them, as the other two stand up so that we're all facing each other.

"Uh, guys? I'm sorry, but do you not get the concept of personal space?" Seriously, though, Mia and Dion, the other two, are so close to me that I can hear- scratch that- _feel_ every time they take a breath.

They take the hint, thankfully enough. After moving about two feet back so that we can actually have a conversation like a bunch of normal kids our age, Mia asks the obvious question that everyone's thinking about.

"Anyone seen Kiara anywhere? If we manage to find her, this will be the first time outside of school we've all seen each other for a while," she says.

Of course, I have to speak up. "I saw her. Something tells me that she'd not up for seeing us anytime soon."

Everyone else lets loose a groan. "Oh well," Gerald says. "Why it's always her, I'll never know."

I bite my lip. Despite what they all think, having their parents go through a heated argument while having that be the start of a (hopefully temporary) separation between them _might_ just be a good enough reason to not want to see anyone.

But now's probably not a good time.

* * *

After about an hour of just having a nice conversation with everyone, the sun starts to be obscured by the towering buildings all around us, and that's my signal to come home.

Thankfully, the time we spent wandering around the city was not that long, so I don't have to sprint back home in order to make it on time. (Which isn't exactly a good measure of how far away we've gone- my sprint speed is awful and distance doesn't make it any better.)

When I finally get to the apartment, I fumble for the house key I'm supposed to have on me at all times before realizing I forgot it. Again. Luckily, the door's never unlocked except for while we sleep, because A) Most of the robbers and morphine addicts and such still have enough sense to not try to pull off a robbery in broad daylight and B) The three of us (Jacob, Fiona, and I) constantly forget to bring a key with us whenever we leave the apartment, meaning that if we locked to door, our parents would be forced to constantly unlock it anyway.

Pushing the door open, I'm greeted by a blast of pleasantly cool air. Mom must have turned on a fan or something to try and keep the brutal summer heat at bay. It seems to be working.

Jacob and Fiona have gotten home and are sitting on the couch. Or, more accurately, Jacob is sitting on the couch and Fiona is _trying_ to sit on the couch. She only manages to stay on for about a second at a time before Jacob keeps knocking her off.

"Hey! Knock it off!" This coming from Fiona.

Jacob replies with "Sorry, I don't understand you. I don't speak baby talk!" This is followed by him making several faces that are trying to convey that, but in reality, he just looks like a big buffoon.

It's still funny, though. My sister's cute and all, but she gets worked up really easily. It's something that Jacob and I have been exploiting for years. Her reactions are always priceless, way worth any punishment we get for them.

And this time, since Mom is busy cooking stuff for dinner and just doesn't have time to deal with us, we'll get punished lightly, if at all. Works for me.

As of now, Mom's almost finished cooking, which means Dad's going to be home pretty soon. I don't know how he does it, but he _always_ comes through the door at the exact time that dinner starts. Whether he just has extremely good intuition or is just being a total creeper, I don't know and I don't think I want to ask.

Either way, his arrival hopefully won't throw the entire family into disarray like some of them do. He's both pro-Capitol and "pro-guy," as he calls it. While I'm both of those things as well, he exhibits both of those traits to an uncomfortable degree, even by my standards. Also, it _really_ grates on Mom whenever he says stuff like that, to the point that more often than not she tries to leave the room whenever he starts up like that.

"Okay, everyone," Mom calls from the kitchen, "Dinner!"

Sure enough, the door opens and Dad steps into the apartment as soon as she says that. He leans his suitcase against the wall, drops his hat and coat on the chair right outside the door Mom placed there for that exact purpose, and ditches his shoes right next to it before sitting down right next to me.

"Hello, guys," he says. "Work, as expected, was amazing today? Anything exciting happen today for you guys?"

"Yeah, lots of stuff happened today!" Fiona begins to chatter. "First, I got up and went out to see Axelle and Tyra and everyone else I like, then we went out to go watch some cars get assembled and then we saw a car chase, or at least a tiny bit of it, and then we"

"Okay, I think we get it," Dad says. "You clearly did a _lot_ of things today. Jacob, Remi, what about you guys?"

Jacob, of course, starts before I can get even a single word in. "Well, first, I obviously went to see friends, then…"

Before he can get too far, I wolf down the rest of my dinner and try to politely excuse myself from the table. Unlike with Fiona, Dad's going to let Jacob ramble on forever, to the point where I'm never going to be able to get a word in.

And anyways, I'm exhausted. I need an early bedtime.

So, before anyone (including Jacob, who's still in the middle of rambling on and on) can ask me where I'm going, I slip into our shared bedroom.

The lights are on, but that changes in an instant as I quickly flick them off before crawling under the sheets. It only takes a second for the room to plunge into pitch-darkness. As soon as that occurs, I shut my eyes, not even noticing the difference.

I hear my own breathing. Then nothing.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry about the _eternal_ wait for this chapter. Don't worry, this story is _not_ dead, I just had this thing called real life (ugh) get in the way. I will finish this story by any means necessary.

-Thanks to DMonkey1607 for sending me Remi.

-We're almost through these POVs! Only six more tributes to go.

-Coming up next is DMonkey1607's other tribute, the D11F. This will be followed by the D7F, D11M, D10F, and finally, the combined D9M/D9F POV (They're so closely related I'm just going to make one slightly longer chapter combing their introductions).

-See you next chapter!


	20. D11F: The Contradictions of Life

**Chapter Nineteen: The Contradictions of Life**

* * *

 **Congratulations, You've Officially Lost Track of Time!**

* * *

 **Odysea Davos, District Eleven Female**

* * *

In my opinion, the worst part about having to do intense labor all summer is the smell.

Yeah, I get it. The work is impossibly demanding, especially since we don't even grow our own food, instead being provided food by the "generous" Capitol. (Which is stupid, if you ask me- a person who's well-fed is more productive.) Said work is also very boring, and you also have to do it from sunrise until it's too dark to see, with only a break for lunch. Oh, and did I mention that if you're caught doing _anything_ that doesn't benefit the Capitol, you get beaten in public by the Peacekeepers?

All those things are pretty terrible, no doubt about it. But the smell tops it all. It gets everywhere, scrubbing yourself clean isn't an option because drinkable water is such a rare commodity, and it never goes away. Even in winter, the stink that you get during the summer still hangs in the air, which is a cruel reminder of the fact that the entire District has essentially been forced into slavery all summer.

Currently, I'm staggering back and forth among row after row after row of vegetables, pulling up every tiny little weed that I see. Thankfully, we get gloves for this part, so I'm not constantly getting poked by thorns or scratched by sticks.

However, five steps later, I notice a medium-sized weed in the path, which wouldn't be a problem, except I recognize its color: a bright, screaming shade of red, even though fall isn't anywhere near starting yet. Poison ivy. At least I have gloves, so I can pull it up without touching it. Otherwise, I'm going to be scratching like there's no tomorrow all night once I get home. (If I tried scratching it a work without also figuring out how to do my jobs, I might not _have_ a tomorrow.)

I have to be _really_ careful with this stuff- one time, Flora, one of my coworkers, noticed some poison ivy growing and picked it up to try and get rid of it. However, she tripped on the way to the woods and accidentally let the poison ivy hit one of the Peacekeepers in the face.

While I do admit that it was kind of funny that the Peacekeeper went around for a week looking like someone had hung tiny balloons off his face, I'm pretty confident that Flora didn't find it funny when they tied her to a post and whipped her publicly, and for so long that she almost passed out from the pain. Several coworkers had to support her the whole way back to where she lived that day, because the was in so much pain she could barely walk. I never saw her again.

So, I hustle over to the wooded area right outside the patch of crops we attend, ditch the plant like a hot potato, and hurry to get back on task.

Time is money here. I can't afford to waste much of it.

* * *

It seems like forever, but eventually, the head watchman calls "Lunch break!"

I don't care that I'm in the middle of trying to pull up a particularly large, stubborn weed in the center of a corn patch. I throw it down and race towards the area where everyone is lining up to receive their lunch rations. Which are too small, by the way, because to quote Peacekeepers, "we don't want any of you getting too fat."

 _Sure,_ I think to myself, _doing hard physical labor twelve hours a day all day won't help us stay in shape. We need as little food as possible, too._

Once I get to the front of the line, I get my lunch portion, which is in a brown paper sack that makes me feel like a five-year-old. Hell, it even has my name scrawled on it in what appears to be a black marker. (Not that I'm used to seeing one- most of us are worried more about buying food than figuring out where they can go to find black markers.)

I open it up, and find the usual: our tesserae roll that the District is semi-famous for (from the bit of Capitol-oriented TV that I've managed to see, it's one of the tesserae breads they attempt to make for themselves), small bottle of water, and a miniscule box of something that looks like dried fruit. (Thankfully, this Head Peacekeeper learned their lesson about including fresh fruit after it started rotting before they served it to us for the fifth time in a row.)

Looking for a place where I can sit down for a minute (or at least lean over) I notice a familiar face with her back against the fence, digging into her tesserae roll like there's no tomorrow.

"Hello there, Kiki," I say as I keep walking over towards her. "How's your work going?"

I would normally ask how her day is going, but if someone is stuck working here all day, that answer is pretty easy to figure out. I know that because most Capitolites (and probably most of the people from other Districts) wouldn't last more than a day in this line of work, so pretty much everyone here has had a terrible day so far.

"No worse than any other day," she says back in between bites of seed-covered bread. "The days just seem to blend together at this part of the summer."

"Yeah, I get that feeling," I say back. As bad as I have it, Kiki has it even worse. Sure, I have to work twelve-hour-shifts every day in the summer in the fields, since I'm both at the age where I don't need parental consent forms filled out and need money to keep us all from starving in the streets, but she's been working in the fields in the summer (and at a factory in the winter) for up to fifteen-hour-shifts every single day of the year, regardless of the weather. She's also taking care of a sister and a brother single-handedly after her mother passed away in a terrible accident. (She was assigned to pick apples from a tree, fell out fifty feet up, and landed head-first on a rock. The doctors- or at least the imitations of them we have here- tried to help her, but she, unfortunately, was beyond saving.)

"How are your siblings doing?"

"Not great," she says with a disappointed look on her face. "Berry keeps asking Luca where her big sister goes every morning. She goes on and on about how much she want to be with me, from what I've been told. "I know she's only six, but trust me. After one day in the fields-"

She quickly cuts herself off as a Peacekeeper passes by, well too close for comfort. The last thing we need today is to be whipped in public by a middle-aged man on a power trip.

So, we just have a simple, inoffensive conversation for the next five minutes or so while we're gobbling down our food, until the same watchman who announces lunch yells out, "Lunch is over, everyone! Get back to work!"

Considering that getting whipped was not on my list of "things to do" today, I know I have to get back to work. Thus, I scarf down the remainder of my pitiful lunch, wave a hasty goodbye to Kiki, and hustle back into the fields.

* * *

An indeterminate amount of time later, it's time to quit.

The only reason I know this is because it's literally too dark to see. The torches we stick into the ground only do so much, and even with one placed about fifty feet in front of me, I can barely see three inches in front of my face. And with my luck, I'm going to wind up stepping on a berry bush or something and getting the crap beaten out of me by a Peacekeeper.

Finally, _finally,_ the horn goes off that means the official time to clock out has hit. (Originally, they used to just use mockingjays to signal that, but that got phased out before I was born due to them becoming a symbol of rebellion, my mother once told me.) Sticking close to the torchlight to make sure I don't accidentally destroy any of the crops, I follow the glowing path back out of the fields and onto the dirt road that connects most of our little town.

At least, it _was_ a dirt road. Because it rains constantly in the summer, the road has essentially become a glorified swamp. Stepping in that is disgusting, but it's better than going through the lush thickets of nasty plants that grow on the side of the road, which includes poison ivy, poison oak, and quite a few more that I don't even want to know about.

It'd drizzly and miserable as I go back to the patchwork hut that houses me and all my family. Once I get there, all I can do is breathe a sigh of relief that there's a lot of water dripping off the corners of the roof. It sounds like a ridiculous and stupid thing to hope for, but if that's happening, it means that the roof isn't leaking. Which is good, because last time the roof sprang a leak, it was during the night so we didn't notice it until my brother, Hercas (who sleeps on the floor) suddenly started choking. After he coughed all the water out of his system, he realized we were flooded with three inches of water. It took _forever_ to get that all out of the hut.

When I step inside the dark room, all I can see is some faint light coming from a lit candle, and all I can hear is the steady _drip drip_ of some water landing in a bucket. Clearly, some of the rain's still slipping through some cracks in our roof. I'll have time to worry about it later.

Mom is sitting against the floor in the corner, trying to avoid the splashing of rain droplets. Hercas is crouched near our imitation of a fireplace, trying to create some sparks. The room isn't very bright, of course, because even if we did have windows, it's way too dark outside to see more than a few inches in front of our faces.

Hercas notices me first. "Hello, Odysea. How was work today?"

I snicker a little. "Less awful than usual. Just kind of monotone, if backbreaking work like this could ever be monotone. How about you?"

"Drills, drills, and more drills," he says dryly. "I don't know why I can't move on to more advanced training, I've been doing this stuff for years." Hercas wants to be a Peacekeeper to try and lower the amount of violence that goes on in this District. Considering we have almost nothing to live for, the amount of senseless suffering caused here is well higher than in the Districts that are better off.

Mom interrupts our conversation and gestures over to the one shelf we have in the house. "I went out today and got a couple of pieces of candy for tomorrow night. Just to celebrate making it for another year." When I shake my head, confused, she clarifies her statement by saying, "Tomorrow's Reaping Day. Hercas is finally out of the bowl, but you still have a shot at being sent in, Odysea."

The Reapings are tomorrow. Joy.

These things are just another way for the Capitol to essentially spit in our faces. It isn't enough for them to force us to do a million and one things just to satisfy their absurdly gluttonous "needs," they also have to outright commit murder for their own enjoyment while they're at it. And then they're surprised as to why ninety percent of the District population hates them.

Including us. Unsurprisingly, we _don't_ enjoy being forced to do twelve hours of hard labor every single day. Especially since we see almost zero of the benefits of doing such labor. All the food we get it sent to us from the Capitol. We survive off whatever's left over after they're done with it. Which is never much.

I hear a knock on the door, or at least the pale imitation of it that we make do with. When I manage to force the thing open- causing enough creaking in the process that the birds that have landed in the yard all fly away in a storm of wings- it reveals Jason, another friend of mine. However, the expression on his face wouldn't look out of place at a public execution. (And I should know. I've been forced to attend a couple in my lifetime.)

"Odysea- Hercas- I need you outside for a second," he says. "This is important."

"Sure thing," I say quickly, making sure that Mom gives her nod of approval before we step outside into the steaming air.

Jason looks at me, then Hercas, then me again, and gives another somber nod.

"Guys, let's go for a walk."

* * *

A short time later, we're out in the countryside, taking in the scenery that we never have the time to enjoy while we're working.

Hercas opens his mouth to say something. "What's this-"

"Be quiet," Jason says. "You know what'll happen if a Peacekeeper hears us, right? So zip it!"

Hercas stays quiet. Soon, we diverge off the muddy road through a field of ripening corn, being careful not to break any of the stalks as to alert anything nearby of our presence. Two fields of corn, one field of beets, and one out-of-the-way trail later, we come across a clearing. Or at least, what used to be a clearing. Now, it looks more like a mass grave.

Hercas heaves next to me, but luckily doesn't throw up. There wasn't enough actual food in tonight's dinner for that to be feasible.

There are bodies _everywhere._ And I do mean everywhere. The flies have started on some of them, leaving a grotesque imitation of what once was a human being. One poor guy clearly made it partway up a nearby tree before dying, as parts of the truck are sticky with dried blood. When I see some of them are children, some clearly younger than I am, I go stiff and my stomach ties itself in a firm knot.

"There was a demonstration against the Capitol this afternoon," Jason whispers, "and the Peacekeepers were either informed of it or walked in on it by accident. They just started shooting. No words, only death."

Tears start to spill out of my eyes. Hercas tries really hard to hold them back. It's not just the death and carnage that makes us feel like we've just fallen off the edge of the earth.

 _This is the same way that Achillos died,_ Hercas and I think at the same time. He'd gone to a demonstration just like this one (despite our mother's protests) and been killed in the process. We managed to get the body returned to us so we could bury him. However, that convinced me, and everyone else, that no amount of peaceful protest was going to help us better our position.

We don't actively rebel, and none of us are part of the _really_ out there sects who do things like assassinate Peacekeepers. For the most part, it's little things: stealing crops that we spread out to the rest of the District, destroying the whips that the Peacekeepers always carry, and things like that. But we never caused any actual harm. This way, we could help everyone without being executed for "inciting rebellion" (which is ridiculously vague, by the way).

"This is why we need to stop Peacekeepers from doing this," Hercas whispers in my ear. "This is what I want to stop. All this senseless, meaningless violence."

I completely agree with him, but I don't think he can really do much. As well-intentioned as he is, he's just one guy. One in about three hundred won't make a big enough ripple to create any meaningful change.

"Let's go home before we get caught," I whisper back to Hercas. He gestures at Jason, who nods and waves goodbye and he hurries off in a different direction.

As we retrace our steps home, making sure to avoid detection, I remember all the screwed-up things we've come to see as normal in the District. Public whippings, backbreaking work every day, and the Hunger Games.

Tomorrow, they start. And for the two people they choose, life will never be normal again.

But for everyone else, life will go on. We've adapted way too well.

Hopefully, one day, everyone here will be able to fix that.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Finally, FINALLY had the time to finish this. Sorry it took forever, that's why I tried to make it a little longer than usual.

-Thanks to DMonkey1607 for Odysea.

-Next up is Tiger Outsider's first tribute, the D7F.

-After that, only three POVs left. We're almost there, folks!

-See you next chapter!


	21. D7F: DIY Family

**Chapter Twenty: DIY Family**

* * *

 **What is Time?**

* * *

 **Alexa Dobio, District Seven Female**

* * *

When I finally left my house for good, I looked back upon my brief stay and wondered why the heck I didn't leave sooner.

The trouble started way back, before I was even born. My father had always wanted a boy, and instead got me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that that's never a good combination.

Not to mention, our personalities clashed a lot, to say the least. He always wanted me to be some "prim and proper lady" crap that made no sense to me. Ultimately, it meant that I was always expected to sit still in some frilly dress for most of the day, and do housework whenever I wasn't sitting still. His attitude towards women (including my mom) was at least three hundred years out of date, and that's being conservative.

However, I didn't fit whatever stereotype my father wanted me to be. I'm too twitchy and hyperactive to sit still for hours on end. Housework, while not the worst thing in the world by any stretch of the imagination, got really repetitive, really fast. The clothes I was forced to wear made me feel far more like a doll than a person. I flat-out refused to stay inside all the time like he wanted to.

And, most importantly, I hated the Capitol. How utterly unlike him.

Okay, maybe I wasn't being one hundred percent fair on that one. I took a lot of influence from my friend Maisie on that one, considering that her, along with her social group, despise the Capitol with every fiber of their being. While they always disliked the Capitol, the real tipping point came exactly five years ago.

It's the main reason I got out of here, and let's just say it's a long story.

* * *

Back when we were younger and a little more carefree, Maisie had a good friend named Sepia. She always came along with us on our little adventures, whenever I could sneak out of the house. This wasn't often, making every experience with her one to remember.

Our whole world changed when Sepia's sixteen-year-old sister, Mahogany, was Reaped for the 90th Hunger Games.

Unsurprisingly, Sepia experienced quite the burst of emotions after watching her sister get taken away. First sadness (she refused to come out of her room for days) and then rage (we could hear her screeching nonsense and hurling stuff at the walls for a while).

We looked on in terror as the fateful day drew closer, taking note of every little detail, even if we didn't want to. She scored a six in training. In her interview, she hinted at a romantic relationship with her moody, supposedly-nuts District partner, Tinder. We ate, slept, and breathed the Hunger Games that year, silently hoping, wishing, praying. Sepia paid the closest attention out of all of us (once she came out of her room) even if she was terrified of her sister's fate.

She still wanted to see the Bloodbath. Even though Mahogany was almost certainly going to die in it, she wanted to cheer her on until the end. As I looked at the frenzied expression on her face, I seriously wondered whether or not she'd be able to take it if her sister got killed.

But she didn't get killed that day, instead managing to escape into the maze of tunnels the arena was set in. And as the days dragged on, she became part of a dwindling group of tributes as we all hoped for a miracle to help her escape the arena alive.

And then, nine days and fifteen deaths in, a miracle happened.

The Gamemakers were getting bored of one specific tribute (I don't remember her name) so they decided to collapse the tunnel she was hiding in to off her quickly. However, that tunnel was much higher up than most of the others, and the resulting debris wound up causing other tunnels to also collapse. The same process repeated over and over again until almost every tunnel, save for a few at the very top, turned into nothing more than a pile of rubble. The Games had been unintentionally cut short, and all but one tribute had to be dug out from the gigantic mound of debris so their bodies could be sent home.

Mahogany, by sheer luck, was that one tribute. She'd been camped out in the highest tunnel in the arena for days, likely figuring that the Careers wouldn't look up there for a while. Although she was relatively unscathed by the carnage that occurred right at the end of the Games, erasing the screams of the dying tributes from her mind completely would be impossible.

Us, being young, naive eight-year-olds, assumed Mahogany would come back after the little ceremony they did for her, and life would go back to what could be perceived as normal. But we could not have been more wrong.

It took her three months to finally make her way back to District 7. And when she did, it was obvious she was a wreck of her former self. She had been bubbly and outgoing before being sent in, but now, she was constantly crying, didn't even bother getting out of bed on some days, and hardly ever left the confines of her room. Even with Mahogany, plus her family, getting settled into a gigantic mansion in the Victor's Village that dwarfed every other building I'd seen in my life, she just wasn't the same, and she wasn't happy, either.

It was easy enough to figure out why. When she was forced along on her "Victory Tour," she was showered with hate in multiple Districts, _especially_ the Career Districts. She'd had to watch the recap of her Games a week after she was airlifted out of the arena, amplifying the horrible memories she had of the place that much further. And, once I got an answer as to what the word "prostitution" meant, it only became more obvious.

In other words, even when someone wins the Hunger Games, they still lose, no matter how much money and fame they get. Some things, you can never get back. And after seeing Mahogany come back home, I'm pretty confident your mental state is one of them.

* * *

However, even _after_ Mahogany came home, my parents wouldn't shut up about how incredible the Capitol was and that we should be grateful for their support and whatever other stupid excuses they had. Eventually, after one too many nights where I was hit and sent to bed without dinner as punishment, I'd had enough. So, I got out of there, and I didn't look back.

Thankfully, Maisie's parents were kind enough to take me in. They told me, "Well, we already have seven kids. One more isn't really going to make a difference," after Maisie figured out what had happened.

So, right now everyone's cleaning the house, and I'm doing my share of it, even if it gives me unpleasant flashbacks to my time back home.

"Thanks for the lift, Maisie," I say, getting off her shoulders. Maisie's house has a lot of high ceilings, so right now we're trying to clean all the spiderwebs out of the corners. (It's harder than it looks- I don't know if these spiders are some kind of mutants the Capitol had left over from their weird experiments during the Dark Days, but the webs are really sticky and unnaturally thick.)

"No problem," she replies before walking with me to the next hall so we can repeat the process again.

On the way there, we run into Jaimy and Jessy, Maisie's three-year-old twin siblings, who are clearly in hot pursuit of something. Based on the sheer number of them I've seen in the yard this week, I'm guessing it has to be a squirrel or a chipmunk or something like that.

Whatever. I have to focus on my own task right now.

* * *

After twenty minutes of that, I actually have to run over to the river near our house and soak my hands in it, because all the spiderwebs that have gotten stuck to my hands won't come off no matter how hard I pull at them.

By the time I finish the trip there and back, everything seems to have wrapped up. Maisie's dad is bringing in a big bucket of something that I'd guess is water. Her mother is just sitting on the grass, staring up at the sky. I'd assume she's watching the sun go down, but you never know. Everyone else is doing something random, whether it be trying to climb one of the smaller trees in the backyard (what Maisie's six-year-old brother, Donovan, is doing) or just kind of wandering around (like what everyone else is doing).

However, a few minutes later, Maisie's dad yells, "Dinner!" As soon as he does, everyone stampedes towards the door, wanting to actually be able to eat something before all the food is gone.

This time, though, that isn't going to be a problem. Over the course of the past few minutes, Maisie's dad has made a big plate filled with pancakes made out of tesserae grain. (Say what you want about the grain being really weird and inferior to the Capitol's grain, but that doesn't mean you can't make good things with it.) All of them are covered in tree sap (yes, tree sap, not syrup) and stacked in a teetering pile that threatens to topple over.

He's still making more as we all dig in. Sure, tesserae grain is precious, but the date that we get it this month is the day after tomorrow. Sure, tomorrow's the Reaping, meaning some poor soul won't be able to get any, but wasn't that the point when they invented the thing?

Once everyone is finally, finally full, Maisie's dad makes one more batch for himself, scarfs it down, and then wanders into the big bedroom to pass out. Jaimy, Jessy, and Donovan, the youngest of Maisie's siblings, follow shortly after.

As for the rest of us, it's getting dark, but it hasn't quite reached the status of true night yet. Thus, there's still time for us to do things, as long as they don't require electricity, of course. (It always cuts out at night. I never understand why.)

So, Maisie proposes a pretty good suggestion to us all. "Why don't we just head into the woods? Sure, it's nighttime, but compared to the Reapings, nothing's scary anymore, right?"

I definitely agree. So do Mara, Jason, and Ferry, Maisie's other siblings, who are thirteen, ten, and eight, respectively. We would ask Maisie's parents if it's OK if we go, but they're already asleep. I'm assuming they won't mind too much.

"Should we leave a note?" I want to make sure Maisie's parents know where we've gone in case they wake up for some reason.

"If I can find paper, I'll do it," Jason replies. It doesn't take long. Considering our industry is wood, paper is one of the few products we have no shortages of here. Ever. Even if a lot of it goes to the Capitol. And it shows, as in less than half a minute, he comes up with a piece of the stuff and something to write with, scrawls "WILL BE BACK SOON" on said paper in messy letters, and sliding it under the door leading to the bedroom Maisie's parents are currently asleep in.

As soon as he gives the "all clear," we run like heck, out into the woods where peace awaits.

* * *

It's a good thing that's there's relatively few clouds tonight.

It's hard enough to see in the woods as is, without moonlight we'd be walking through pitch black. We stay on the beaten path for a while, stumbling our way forward, tripping over roots every once in a while, occasionally stopping to pick flowers. However, about half a mile in, we break off the path, heading into the actual woods.

Except for the crickets, we're the only things making noise in here. Luckily, the Peacekeepers don't patrol the woods at night- they mostly stick to the shops in the town square, which are notorious thief magnets. Otherwise, we'd probably all be dead.

A few hundred meters later, we find a place that we've visited in the past- a partially downed tree that's definitely uprooted, but is being supported by its canopy in such a way that it isn't quite flat. It has a thick enough trunk and a low enough angle of incline that anyone can make it at least fifteen feet off the ground if they don't mind heights, and it's not something that the lumberjacks have gotten to yet, thankfully.

Ferry climbs on first and starts up. Then Jason. As soon as we're all on top of the thick trunk, we precariously inch our way up, a little bit at a time, using the little bit of moonlight penetrating the trees around us to see. After a couple of minutes, we manage to get reasonably high, to a place where the moonlight is much brighter.

Once we're all up there, we look up, making sure not to let go of our handholds. It's looking to be a beautiful night- not a cloud can be seen, anywhere. Dozens of stars dot the sky, and a pale moon hovers overhead. It's an incredible sight. One that's worth leaving the house this late.

After a few serene minutes have passed, I turn to Maisie. "Maisie?"

She slowly rotates her body so she can face me without falling off the tree, and says, "Yes, Alexa?"

"This is awesome. I wish every night was like this."

She smiles, and responds with, "Me, too."

Eventually, we're going to have to go back to the house, and I'll have to go to sleep and prepare for the Reapings tomorrow.

But, for now, all I want to do is enjoy the view. And I only have one thought going through my mind right now.

 _If only there was a way to make this moment last forever._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I know, I know, I know. I've been moving at a glacial pace for the past few chapters. Trust me when I say this, though: It may take a long time, but I _will_ see this story through to the end. This isn't going to remain unfinished.

-Thanks to Tiger Outsider for Alexa.

-Next up is the D11M, also by Tiger Outsider. Then, we have the D10F and the D9M/D9M.

-Only three pre-Reapings Chapters to go! We're almost there!

-See you next chapter!


	22. D11M: Positivity Goes a Long Way

**Chapter Twenty-One: Positivity Goes a Long Way**

* * *

 **I Think We Get It Now.**

* * *

 **Thomiah Marshall, District Eleven Male**

* * *

People always ask me how I get through the days while field work is in session.

For me, it's never been that hard. If you can ignore the constant threat of being beaten senseless by a Peacekeeper, I've always found field work to be, well, fun.

Well, it _has_ been fun as of recently. Since I've gotten used to it and am in much better shape than I've ever been, I don't find the work that grueling, which most of the others do. I know I'm lucky enough to know that there will _be_ a meal when I get home, which is something that not a lot of the District can say. On top of that, I've been doing this for four years at this point, ever since I realized that I was never going to be a good enough student to become a merchant or an assistant to the mayor or something like that.

That's why I can do the heavy lifting most of the time. I'm doing said lifting now.

"Hey, Thomiah, a little help?" This comes from Richard, a friend and coworker of mine, who's currently struggling to lift a packed crate that has to weigh fifty pounds, at least.

"Sure thing." No surprise here, but two people have a way easier time carrying something than one ever will. Thus, we can easily move the crate from one end of the field to the other.

After that, it's time to give the plants some fertilizer. While it rains enough here that water is hardly ever a problem, clearly the Capitol (who dictates what crops we need to plant, and how much) has never heard about crop rotation (or just doesn't care), meaning we have to add a ton of fertilizer (Capitol-provided, of course) just to make things grow in it anymore.

It's a nice break from all the heavy lifting, though, so I'm not complaining.

* * *

Eventually, it starts getting dark, and the Peacekeeper watching our field tells us to "get out of his sight."

As soon as I hear that, I sprint down the muddy lane, Richard and Carie (Richard's twin sister) hustling behind me in a wild race towards the tiny cluster of shacks that we call home.

Surprisingly enough, all three of us still have energy after what most people would find as a grueling day of work. However, we're some of the luckier people in District Eleven, meaning we have consistent access to food, even if it's not a lot of it. This means we actually _have_ some energy to start most days, whereas I've seen some of my former coworkers just kind of break. One second, they were doing a fine job, the next, they'd collapsed in a row of crops and a Peacekeeper had to spend five minutes reviving them.

When I finally reach the outer line of the cluster of shacks that we call a village, I stop to catch my breath for a minute. In that time frame, Richard and Carie are both able to catch up, although they're panting just as much as I am.

Quietly, we move through the overcrowded, narrow dirt lanes, making sure not to bump into anyone in the process. Then, at the last row of shacks, we split up, with Richard and Carie heading towards the shack in the top right corner, whereas I head exactly two shacks to the left of the central shack of the row.

"See you in a bit?" Richard calls this over his shoulder.

"Of course," I reply. Finally, I step inside the little shack I call home.

It's not quite a shack, in the sense that we've actually managed to make a comfortable home out of it. The mattresses we sleep on are shoved in a corner, with the toilet in another corner, blocked from view by a ratty shower curtain. Mom and Dad are currently in the third corner, cutting up raw fruits and vegetables on a plate for dinner, and Helena (my sister) is in the fourth corner, absent-mindedly playing with a rag doll that had been a gift for her eighth birthday. (She claims she's looking for a job, but something about the way she says it tells me that it'll take a while to find one.)

She sees me first. "Mom, Dad, Thomiah's home."

I quickly respond to her. "Yes, I am home. How was everything today?"

Mom answers first. "Not terrible, but not great either." In other words, just like any other day at the pre-packaged meals factory that she works at.

Dad quickly follows. "Same here."

"I'm assuming it's the usual for dinner?"

Helena smirks at me. "Well, duh. Were you expecting gold-plated caviar or something?"

At that, we both burst out laughing. I wouldn't be surprised if such a thing exists in the far-off Capitol (if anyone would even come up with an idea like that, it would be them) but we don't even have fish here (edible ones, anyway), let alone caviar.

When the raw fruit and vegetables hit the table, it's a mad dash for everyone to get their share before it's all gone- and while we can still see it. (We can't put torches inside- because the hut is essentially made of straw and dirt, one toppling torch could spell disaster, in great big flaming red letters.)

As soon as everything is gone (and Helena is done unleashing colossal burps that nearly shake the table) Richard and Carie stick their heads in the room.

"Thomiah, Helena, you guys want to do something fun tonight?" Carie practically shouts this, waving her arms around like crazy.

I look at Mom, then Dad, wondering if they have anything to say about this "something fun." Thankfully, after a few seconds of awkward silence, Mom says, "It's fine if you want to go outside for a few hours."

"Will do," I say, before Helena and I hustle out the door and into whatever the hell Richard and Carie have planned for the two of us.

* * *

It's almost full-on night at this point, meaning we have to be careful to stay on the road. Mostly because we don't want to damage any of the crops we've spent so much time growing, but partially because the sides of the road have so many nasty plants to their name- poison ivy, poison oak, bushes with nasty thorns that take _forever_ to pull out, and some I don't even want to know about.

Richard and Carie leading the way, the four of us wander down one dirt road after another, for what has to be at least half an hour or so. However, after countless twists and turns, the walking finally ends, and we come across a relatively secluded stretch of land. No crops, no houses, no Peacekeepers, no nothing.

I turn to Richard and Carie. "Okay, this is… interesting. I've never been here before."

"Are you sure we're not lost?" Helena's whipping her head back and forth, presumably looking for something familiar to cling on to. However, there isn't anything that could qualify for that in this place.

"No, we're not. And we still have a bit of walking to do," Carie says.

"You sure? This looks like a dead end," Helena counters.

Neither of them respond. Instead, they high-step off the road, walking into what I can only assume is woods. Not wanting to be left behind, I follow them, although I practically have to drag Helena along with me. She's probably kind of scared, and I can't really blame her, considering that even the Peacekeepers usually stay out of the woods at night.

However, after about a minute, a faint glow appears in the distance, breaking up the pitch black of the night. Another minute, and it's lighting up the woods, making it so that we can actually see where we're going. One minute later, and we realize that it isn't a glow, it's a bonfire.

While a bonfire in the middle of the woods (which are highly flammable, by the way) is probably a bad idea, the kids who are watching it- a boy and a girl who look to be about my age- don't seem concerned. Occasionally, they toss some weeds into the blaze when it starts to falter, but for the most part, they're letting it be.

As for the others, most of them somewhere between Helena's age and my age, most of them are talking, or dancing around the fire, or holding roughly-made wooden cups of something.

Helena squeals like a little girl, then rushes over towards what appears to be the most crowded part of the party. I try to stroll over to take a look, but Richard holds me back.

"Just have to tell you one thing- do _not_ , under any circumstances, drink anything they offer you. That's the only unpleasant part of this thing- it looks like regular water, but it's spiked."

"How can they-" I start, but Carie cuts me off. "Don't ask. It doesn't even taste that good. I tried it the first time we came to one of these things. Getting home was a nightmare that night."

This is really awkward. Judging by the way Richard and Carie are talking to everyone else, it seems that they've been here many times before. However, Helena and I didn't even know this place existed until about five minutes ago, meaning we're definitely going to be on the outside looking in for the most part.

So, for the most part, I wander aimlessly around the bonfire, talking to anyone who's willing to have a conversation. I might be good at making friends, but the so-called "dance floor" (which is really just a square patch of dirt that's been flattened out by so many people who have used it before) is not my scene. However, Helena's currently on it, and she appears to be having the time of her life.

Oh, whatever. The worst day of the year is tomorrow, anyway. So why not have a bit of fun today?

* * *

While all good things must come to an end, this is one of the few good things that I'm happy is over.

Richard and Carie manage to break free of the crowd of people on the dance floor, even if they have to practically drag Helena with them. As they wave goodbye to everyone there, I join them, and we walk side by side back into the woods.

Well, Richard, Carie, and I all walk. Helena just kind of staggers. She trips over seemingly nothing a couple of times, too. I don't make the connection for a while, but after she bursts out laughing for seemingly no reason for the third time in the past few minutes, I start to wonder if she drank some of that imitation water.

That answer quickly becomes a clear "yes." I don't know what the people who made that stuff put into it, but whatever it is, it's making Helena's breath smell awful, to the point that I'm walking a solid five feet away from her just to get some fresh air.

Thankfully, Richard and Carie know the twisting roads to get back home well. Before long, the cluster of shacks becomes clearly visible, and Richard and Carie split off from us. "See you soon, guys," Richard calls over his shoulder.

Before Helena can stumble inside the house, however, I grab her shoulder and pull her out of earshot of the little shacks. "Helena, how much of that stuff did you have to drink at the party?"

She starts to say something, but I cut her off. "It's pretty obvious, so don't try hiding it. You could barely walk in a straight line on the way home. And I've seen you every day for fifteen years, you're not this clumsy."

Looking at me in the eyes, she answers. "Half a cup. Some kid offered me it, and I drank it to be polite. It tasted awful, so I let him finish the rest. Why is that such a big deal?"

"Didn't you hear Richard say 'don't drink anything that they offer you?'"

"No, I didn't. Sorry that drinking that water was such a huge deal for some reason, but seriously. What's the problem?"

Okay, she clearly didn't get the memo. "Helena, that wasn't water! It was this weird… alcohol-infused… thing that we weren't supposed to drink! And now you're all drunk and weird!"

She's obviously confused. "How could they-"

"I asked the same question. Apparently, it's one we don't want to know the answer to. Let's just hope Mom and Dad went to bed early tonight."

She's pretty lucky she only drank half a cup. Currently, she seems a little "off," but hopefully Mom and Dad could chalk it up as being tired. If she had had any more, it'd be pretty obvious she was drunk, especially since she'd never touched alcohol before coming to this party.

Quietly, I lead the way, with Helena slinking in behind me. Mom and Dad seem to be asleep, but they could just be lying down, so I don't want to chance it.

Without a word, we head over to the mattress we sleep on. Usually, Helena sleeps closer to our parents' mattress so that she can be closer to Mom, but it makes sense to switch tonight, just because I'm nervous Mom will be able to smell the alcohol on her breath if she's that close.

I'm not sure about all the side effects of alcohol, but I'm guessing one of them is drowsiness, since Helena practically falls on top of her mattress and is snoring loudly within a minute. And by loudly, I mean she sounds like an elephant with really bad congestion. It'll be a miracle if _anyone_ can sleep through that racket.

However, I have to try, since, even though the Reapings are tomorrow, we still have a half day of work in the fields. I want to be as productive as I always am.

So, I press one ear against the mattress and plug the other with my hand, and try to get some rest.

After some time staring at the ceiling, with Helena's snores having quieted down considerably, I'm finally able to force my eyes shut.

Silence takes over the world. Then, there's nothing.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-It might not be the best chapter, or the greatest thing ever. But it is done, which is more than I could have said yesterday.

-Honestly, I hit a wall when trying to figure out what to do with this guy. The stuff before the second break came easy, but I had no idea where to go with it for a while until the party scene just popped into my head.

-Thanks to Tiger Outsider, once more, for Thomiah.

-All that's left is the D10F and the D9M/D9F chapter, then we're actually starting to go somewhere!

-See you next chapter!


	23. D10F: Words on the Street

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Words on the Street**

* * *

 **I'm Running Out of Creative Ways to Say "One Day Before Reapings"...**

* * *

 **Artesia Alexander, District Ten Female**

* * *

In the years I've been living on the streets, I've been called a lot of ugly names.

"Street rat" is a pretty common term. "Filthy whore" is another winner for these people, even though I haven't gotten _that_ desperate yet. There are a lot of other things they call me as well, but none of them seem to be nearly as common.

However, the filthy, cowering girl most of them see has learned to live on her own, without a home, without anyone to rely on, and while having the ire of just about every wealthy person in the District fixed on people like me.

And quite a bit of the time, she's the reason their trash cans seem to be empty way more frequently than they should.

However, it wasn't always like this. At one point in my life, I actually was viewed as a person, and not just some random hobo wandering the darkened streets of downtown.

* * *

Our family used to consist of four people, before time, misery, and bad luck caused it to dwindle down to one.

My parents had been ranch hands back when they were still around, working twelve to sixteen hours a day just to make sure we had _something_ to eat and a roof over our heads. While quotas were significantly lower, that actually made things worse in some aspects, because employers didn't need to take in anyone with a heartbeat to churn out whatever they could get.

However, one rainy summer night, they tucked my brother Evan and I into bed, just like every other night. However, when we woke up in the morning, they were gone, and neither of us knew if they were alive or dead. All we knew was that we never saw them again, even though we scoured the town from top to bottom searching for any clues that they may have left behind. (There were none.)

At that point, it was just us. Since we couldn't get jobs no matter what we tried, eventually we had to abandon the house and try our hand at living on the streets. It was a little bit of a shock those first two weeks, but after we realized that we weren't going to starve, life got a little bit easier.

The low point was probably during the first winter, when we hadn't thought of storing food for a long period of time. During those weeks, where the trash cans were almost empty, we resorted to eating rope and weeds to sustain ourselves.

After that, though, things weren't too bad for those first few years. At least, until Evan got suckered into going to some demonstration against the Capitol in the town square. He dragged me along, not wanting to lose me at that point, saying that we were just being peaceful and that we were exercising our rights and that nothing was going to go wrong.

Unfortunately, that was one of the few times he was wrong about something. Peacekeepers showed up to try and stop the protest (no big surprise there) but the real tipping point came when they started using tear gas and dragging people off to who-knew-where. One of them grabbed my arm and started taking me away, so he tackled the Peacekeeper doing it. He might have only been sixteen at the time, while the Peacekeeper was at least thirty and had fifty pounds on him, but he knocked the guy to the ground like nothing, and then proceeded to drag both me and himself out of there.

After that, we went into hiding. It worked for a few days, but eventually, we ran into a Peacekeeper, literally, and he put us under arrest. (Sure, he didn't _say_ that, but the point was still made.) He was sentenced to death, despite being a minor (anyone who kills children for a living is evil, no questions asked), and because I didn't actually do the deed, I got the "lenient" sentence of watching them execute the only person that I cared about, and getting sent to the community home.

That fateful day, exactly twenty-seven people, most of them young men, were executed. I looked away so no one else could see that I had broken.

One short stint at the community home later, I was back on the streets. (I didn't give a damn. The girl who got the snot kicked out of her by yours truly should have seen it coming from a mile away.)

And, through more than my fair share of luck, I'm still out here today, trying my best to scavenge for whatever I can to keep living this sorry excuse of a life.

* * *

Currently, I'm just sort of aimlessly wandering through the wealthier parts of town, hoping that I can find something of value so I don't go to bed feeling like I'm about to starve.

Fridays are the worst day of the week for getting anything of value, because the garbage men always come on Thursday to empty out the trash bins in this part of town. (I know this because I tried to get a job there. Multiple times. It never worked out.)

Anyway, while it's harder to find food today, I still have roughly the same chance of finding a couple of coins to buy something. Like it or not, some of the vendors at the market have to take business from whoever comes their way. Even if it is a "street rat" like me.

However, that doesn't mean I don't have to be careful in terms of who I get my food from. I found that out the hard way, a few days after being tossed back onto the streets from the orphanage. There was this one guy who was selling meat really cheaply, and he made a point to give me a discount, because, as he said, "you look like you haven't had a decent meal in months."

However, it turned out to be a cruel trick. A few hours after I ate the thing for my dinner, I had to run to an area that was relatively unoccupied so I could attempt to go to the bathroom, but was just unable to do so. Turns out, the meat had chemicals injected into it that essentially made my insides clamp into a firm knot. I didn't have a satisfactory bowel movement for months. (Why would anyone do that? I don't know, but I guess he hated my type, if you know what I mean.)

But, I have to put that aside for now and actual focus on getting something so I can satiate my gnawing hunger.

* * *

A few hours of searching later, I've actually managed to find a few coins, even if I had to get _very_ muddy in order to reach some of them.

Either way, it's got to be enough to buy an apple, or some bread, or something. Something to get me through to tomorrow so I can start the daily grind for sustenance all over again.

Thankfully, the market is still open, even if it's getting late. Most of the stalls that dot the place are manned and still operational, turning it into a burst of color against the flatness of the surroundings.

Lucky for me, it's early enough that quite a few of the stalls are manned by kids. Sure, they've aged mentally so that they can handle all the responsibilities the adults are supposed to have, but most of them can't be more than eleven or twelve. The boy closest to me is selling raw vegetables, another boy fifty feet away is pushing chopped-up mystery meat, and a girl with braces, next door to the boy, is waving crackers at people, hoping they'll get taken off her hands.

Naturally, I decide to help her out. As I approach, she doesn't look the slightest bit repulsed by my appearance, which is always a good sign. She doesn't say a word to me, but when I give her the meager amount of coins I've collected, she gives me a small handful of crackers without question. Departing quietly, I scarf down my meager dinner, then decide to head for the stream about a mile out of town to get a drink. (Yes, the water might be contaminated. But if that was the case, I'd probably have died a long time ago, right? RIGHT?)

After dunking my muddy face in the water and taking a long sip, I decide that now's as good a time as any to try and get some rest. So, I walk away from town, trying to find some isolated area where no one in their right mind would ever look for a person.

The first- and probably best- option is the big cluster of trees about a mile outside of town that looks like it might have been part of a jungle once. The Peacekeepers here hate to admit that they have weaknesses, but wilderness survival is definitely a skill most of them lack. (I figured that out after _another_ demonstration, similar to the one that got my brother killed, took place exactly where I'm heading now. It took almost the entire force just to get to them because most of the Peacekeepers kept fleeing the woods upon hearing the most mundane of things.)

Due to that, I should be able to sleep in peace for a while.

* * *

Once I get as far into the center of the cluster as I can, where the trees block most of the starlight and moonlight, I sit with my back to a broad tree, exhausted and somehow hungry again.

However, as I try to lie down, I feel the familiar weight of something pressing into my back.

Even though it's too dark to really read, I still remember what the words written on the front of the notebook say: "My Journal, The Third." The first one I had came from the orphanage, where I got it handed down from another kid, who'd only filled half of it before getting bored with it. The second one I got from a vendor after saving coins for a few months. For this one, I did the exact same thing.

I wouldn't be able to read most of my entries, even if it wasn't dark out, because I learned to write really tiny in order to save as much space as possible. These things are pretty expensive (by my standards, anyway) and I want to not have to get another one of these for as long as possible.

Laying the thing on top of me, I tip over, and I'm out before I hit the dirt.

* * *

I wake up to someone shaking me.

As I moan at having to get up and face the day once more, a hand suddenly slams over my mouth. Before I can scream, they clamp harder, and my head is twisted around to face my assailant.

As it turns out, however, he's a boy who can't be older than twelve or thirteen. His eyes keep darting around, as if he's expecting to be jumped any seconds, and he begins pulling me along as he speeds up to an uneasy jog.

"Sorry about the rough wakeup," he whispers in between ragged breaths, "but I'm supposed to scan this area before the Peacekeepers do so that there's fewer people imprisoned today."

At first, it doesn't click. "Wait, why today specifically?"

He replies with "Today's Reaping Day. I'd make a joke there but I'm _really_ nervous right now- this is the first year I'm eligible."

Huh. I guess all the days really do blend together when you're living like this. I probably could have picked up on some conversations across town and inferred that it couldn't be far, but I had no idea that it was, well, so _soon._

As the kid leads me along, I feel around for my familiar journal, and luckily, I find it tucked into my ratty shirt, where it always is, along with a failing pen that barely has any ink left. I haven't been writing that much lately, given that I mostly do it to take my mind off things and there hasn't been much need to do so these past few weeks, but I'm pretty confident Reaping Day is definitely something I want to avoid thinking about.

Therefore, once we get into the endless line to enter the town square for the Reaping, I flip open the journal to the nearest empty page, pull the pen out, and start writing like there's no tomorrow.

 _I still remember the first Reaping I went to, back when my parents were still around. I was naive enough and sheltered enough that I only had a vague idea of what happened to the boy and girl sent onward to the Capitol._

 _It was really crowded in the twelve-year-old section, and there was a lot of pushing and shoving as everyone tried to get the best spot to see our ridiculous escort with her insane hairdo and the beak she'd had surgically attached to her face so that she'd look more like a swan._

 _After that, she read this long, boring speech that everyone zoned out for, and then she pulled out two names. I forget the boy's name. But the girl? She made sure to be as memorable as possible. She looked insane in her all-black outfit and not responding to anything anyone else said just made her even easier to remember._

 _Her name was Kitty. I'd go on to see her again, about seven months later, while she was on her Victory Tour. It might have been the coolest thing I've ever seen._

However, I'm jerked back to reality when I reach the front of the line. Some Peacekeeper who looks like she should have retired fifteen years ago is monitoring my line, most likely checking to make sure no one tries to sneak away while she isn't looking.

"What's your name, missy?" She spits this out with such disdain that any other day I'd have to stifle the urge to call her a name. However, if I had to sit out in the sun all day, monitoring a stupid tradition that desperately needed to die, I'm confident I would be ticked off as well.

"Artesia. Artesia Alexander."

"At least that's easy to find, given that these things are alphabetical," she mutters. After scanning the massive list that she's clearly been given to keep track of who's going where, she looks up at me and says, "go stand with the seventeen year olds."

Quickly, I find my section, filled with kids who are varying degrees of nervous. Some are trying to shrug it off. A few are crying. One's rocking back and forth, holding her head and humming to herself. If this was any other place, I probably would have thought that she'd lost it for good.

But this is the Reapings.

Everyone here goes a little crazy.

As the ridiculous escort makes her dramatic entrance onto the stage, the world around me vanishes, leaving me to mesh into an exhausted, frightened crowd of terrified children.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Well, that came out fast! Compared to the other recent chapters, anyway.

-Thanks to SparrowBirdEliza for sending in Artesia.

-All that's left is the D9M/D9F chapter, then things get moving (finally!)

-See you all next chapter!


	24. D9M & D9F: Making Connections

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Making Connections**

* * *

 **Have You Paid Attention At All The Last Twenty-Two Chapters?**

* * *

 **Marius Coin, District Nine Male**

* * *

Even though it's pouring rain, I'm making what my father calls a "bread run." For the third time this week.

He says he likes the bakery he sends me to because their bread is better made. Or maybe it has something to do with better quality ingredients or possibly because the atmosphere is better than the other places near us. However, I'm not the moron he must think I am, because I can see through his excuse even more easily than the large, decorative stained-glass window that serves as the main decoration in the house.

He wants me there so I'm forced to run into Miller as quickly as possible. Even though, as I've pointed out multiple times, we've never been friends, and chances are we never will be, based on Miller's current state of mind. As a former classmate of mine once said, "no one who goes into the Hunger Games will come out unscathed."

Based on the short conversations that I've had with Miller, that theory seems to be true. From what I can tell, Miller used to work at this bakery before he got Reaped and tossed into the glorified death match that is the Hunger Games just last year. When he returned, victorious despite the odds, back to District Nine, he asked if he could have his old job back so he could try and pretend that his Games never happened. It might have actually worked, if not for the fact that it played on loop on every television screen, was the subject of nearly every conversation, and that everyone was suddenly treating him like some kind of god.

So, every day I have to get bread from there. And it might just be me, but I swear it tastes worse every time I get it.

I'm struggling to handle the umbrella and keep a firm grip on the bag at the same time, so eventually I just close the umbrella and start running as fast as I can, shielding the bag with my body. Once in a while, someone stops to stare at me for a second, but most of them move on without a second thought. Works for me.

Finally, home appears on the distant horizon, but by that point, I've slowed down so much that it feels like I'm sliding backward in comparison to five minutes ago. However, as if to take pity on me, the rain has begun to taper off, only falling in drips instead of sheets. That doesn't keep me from being soaked- I have the rest of the deluge to thank for that- but it means the jacket I'm wearing will have a little less water weight that I'll have to wring out later.

After what feels like an eternity and a half, I make it to the front steps, fish out the well-worn house key, and open the door, stepping inside the place I call home.

Dad's still home, he hasn't had to leave for work yet. However, Mom must have already had to head over to her day job. Thus, the only seat occupied at the dining table is Dad's. Dropping the slightly soggy bag of bread on the table, I move to my place and sit down.

"So, how did it go, son?"

I'm lying through my teeth at this point, but I don't really care. "Fine, fine. Just like the usual."

"That's great!" He takes one of the pieces of bread from inside the bag and bites into it. A couple of sesame seeds fall off the bun and onto the floor, which he promptly cleans up before starting up the process again.

He quietly eats that roll, then chases it down with two more. Finally, he stands up, puts his plate on the counter, and slides on his formal wear over the undershirt he'd had on. "Sorry, son, but I have to go to work," he says.

"I don't understand why you think I have a problem with that, Dad," I respond.

He laughs. "See you this afternoon," he says before walking out the doors, looking like he was dressed for the fanciest party this side of the Capitol. However, that's just what he wears to work. Every. Single. Day.

However, I have the house to myself, essentially. And since school's out and there isn't any summer work, I'm free to do what I want for a short while.

So, what's my master plan?

Aimlessly wander around, trying to see if something interesting comes around.

Yeah, it's really that simple.

Now that school's not in session, the main problem I have is boredom. I know that's a much better problem to have compared to the other problems that people experience in this District, but it's still annoying, nonetheless. So, my best hope is to see if anyone else is doing anything- even if it's one of those weird outdoor games that I still can't figure out how they work. (The one time I passed one, there was some sort of hoop, clods of dirt mixed with the occasional rock, someone chanting a couple of words over and over again, and it just got weirder from there.)

So, without even bothering to leave a note, I slip out the door with my house key, making sure to lock the place tight behind me.

* * *

The square is pretty empty, which is no surprise.

Even though the sun is starting to peek out now, the early rain must have driven everyone indoors. It's also gotten oppressively hot outside, so much so that I'm pretty confident I can see steam rising from the puddles that the storm left behind. I'm moving at a slow walk, and I can already feel sweat trickling down my body. If I stay out much longer, my biggest fear is that I'll get cooked alive.

There's a group of kids playing another one of their ridiculous games in the shade near a house. I still don't understand how to play it, but they're really into it, practically screaming random things at each other as they toss a ball around in a formation that doesn't resemble any shape I know of.

I pass them by. (Because of my inherent social status compared to everyone else, making friends is much harder. And don't even get me started on trying to get a job.)

"Just keep walking," I think to myself. "Just keep walking."

* * *

Well, I've kept walking for the better part of an hour at this point and nothing interesting has really developed.

Even worse, I'm starting to get hungry, so I decide to head back in a few minutes.

But not before I take a little rest. My legs are killing me right now.

So, I sit down on a (currently vacant) bench, crossing my legs and trying to shield my face from the sun. It was hidden this morning, but now it's beating down so fiercely that I'm starting to wonder whether or not I'm risking heat stroke.

Eventually, I decide that if I just sit and wait until I feel like moving again, I'll be stuck here until I'm nothing but a corpse rotting on the ground. So, I get up, and take about two steps towards where home is.

And then I see _her._

It's the mayor's daughter, Toren, no doubt. No one else would have so many layers on in this boiling heat. Not to mention the fact that she's wearing this deep red lipstick that appears to be melting off her lips, giving her the unfortunate impression that she's been drinking blood from a cup.

Well, Dad always tells me that I need to "make connections" wherever I can. And believe me here, but this is not as easy as it sounds. As far as I can tell, most of the upper class citizens around here are _really_ antisocial, meaning that catching one outside is pretty rare and actually being able to have a conversation with one is even rarer.

I'm one of the few exceptions. Luckily, Toren seems to be another.

My legs are moving me towards her before my brain catches up.

* * *

 **Toren Laris, District Nine Female**

* * *

I just needed some time alone.

My father has to run the District for a living, so he's not around that often, but my mom doesn't have anything to do, meaning she wants to spend as much time with me as humanly possible. While I am grateful that she cares that much about me, it gets a little smothering after a while.

So, even though it's about a million degrees outside and I haven't bothered to remove any of the layers of clothing I have on, I'm going for a walk. Not a very long one- just one that prevents me from being stuck inside the house all day. I've been here before- if I sit still for too long, I'm going to blow a gasket.

However, that walk is interrupted when someone steps in front of me. Upon closer inspection, that someone happens to be Marius, who I happen to see outside every now and again.

"Toren!" He shouts this, clearly out of breath. "I didn't know you went outside."

Under normal circumstances, that could definitely be seen as an insult. However, it is a common stereotype that all the wealthiest kids in the District are social recluses who mostly keep to themselves. Considering I see Marius outside a lot (at least, in comparison to the other kids in his position) it doesn't seem to apply to him. While it doesn't apply to me that much either, I'm far from a social butterfly.

This must look really awkward; we're talking to each other even though we have minimal to no idea how to carry a conversation. Due to that, it fizzles out pretty quickly. As I begin to turn around and begin to head for home once more, he tries to get in front of me, and sort of succeeds.

"Do you want to… like… talk or do something? Because I'm really bored," he says.

My parents may or may not freak out if I don't return home soon (that's always a risk, considering that the risk of assassination in this whacked-out world isn't zero, and I'd be a pretty high-profile target for political enemies) but since I'm equally bored, I don't see why not. "Sure, let's go."

His eyes dilate, and he starts shaking a little, to the point that I'm worried he's going to faint. However, he manages to recover after about fifteen seconds, and we head off in what I'm guessing is a random direction.

* * *

The heat has finally started to die down a little once we finally stop for a rest break. I insist we keep moving, considering this is a pretty seedy part of town and that we do _not_ look like we belong here, but Marius said that it didn't really matter, that people had other things to do with their lives than try to mug us.

Once Marius catches his breath, he quickly glances at my pocket, and notices what I'm carrying. "Uh… what's with the thing in your pocket?"

I shrug. "Mom makes me carry it in case something bad happens. I _think_ it's a switchblade, but I've never had to use it, so hell if I know."

His eyes go wide, and his cheeks turn redder than those apples that I get as a birthday present. (Fresh fruit is pretty hard to come by around here- since District Eleven ships most of it and there's never much left over after the Capitol takes their share, it's mostly limited to special occasions.)

It feels really awkward sitting this close to a guy I've only seen in person a few times. This is made ten times worse by the fact that it's _really_ obvious he has a massive crush on me. He's stared directly into my eyes whenever possible while we were talking, his attempts at trying to initiate the hand-holding thing have not gone unnoticed, and his grin is so wide that I'm starting to wonder whether his face will get stuck like that.

"So, what do you think the Reapings are going to be like tomorrow?"

Well, I haven't been thinking of that. The Reapings have always been a dreary time for our District, considering that we almost never get winners, or contenders, for that matter, despite what the Capitol thinks about us due to the events of last year. Did we get last year's Victor? Yes. Were we _expected_ to get last year's Victor? Sort of, but it wasn't because of him.

"It might be a bit less painful for everyone, considering Miller proved last year that everyone had a chance to win," I say. However, we're still sending at least one person off to their death, and probably two. I don't know how anyone could view such a thing as "fun," but then again, The Hunger Games have gone on for ninety-five years at this point, so clearly _some_ people get enjoyment out of it.

Marius starts to say something back, but he gets rudely interrupted by some guy, who can't be much older than we are. His brown hair hangs in a greasy curtain around his acne-marked face, his teeth are all yellowed out, and he reeks of cheap booze.

"Hey! Everyone! I see two rich kids over here! C'mon, maybe they have candy! I could use some candy!"

Marius clasps my hand. "You were probably right about this place. We should go."

As the guy comes staggering towards us with a couple of his friends- all of them holding bottles- we stand up and slowly begin to back away from them.

"Don't be shy!" The guy begins to laugh so hard that I think he spit out a tooth. "Why don't you just have some fun?"

Okay, whatever "fun" this guy has in store for us is not going to be my type. Plus, trusting a drunk guy can go really wrong, really fast.

As we back away faster and faster, whoever this guy is, along with his friends, attempt to pick up the pace so they can match us. That is, until the guy who appears to be leading them all trips over a rock and face-plants into the dusty ground.

Two of his friends help the guy to his feet as his face twists into a snarl that wouldn't look out of place on a wolf. "You witch! You cast a spell on me, didn't you?"

Yeah, that settles it, this guy is drunk beyond all reason. Honestly, that's not an uncommon fate around here- considering most of the cheap kinds of alcohol are made here (although the expensive stuff is a luxury item that's delegated to District One) it's pretty easy to get your hands on a bottle if you want one. I've seen kids drunk in class a few times, because even if there's a legal drinking age (which I don't know if there is anymore) it's not like most people bother to check. They have too many other things to worry about.

As I squeeze Marius' hand hard to let him know that maybe now's the time we should start running, the guy's friends just keep advancing.

Then, we run for the hills, ignoring the shouts of "We hope you two get Reaped tomorrow!" coming from behind us. Eventually, they fade to a dull noise, then nothing.

After we find our way back to the town square, I pull away from Marius. "As much as I'd like to stick around, my parents are probably wondering where the heck I am. I don't know how long we've been gone for."

He seems to understand. "I probably should get home, too. Dad's getting off work soon, he'll freak if he sees that I'm not there."

At that, we each go our separate ways, heading back to try and enjoy the rest of this beautiful day.

As home finally comes into my line of sight, I'm left to silently wonder whether tomorrow will be just as beautiful.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Thanks to Axe Smelling God for both Marius and Toren. Since they were so closely related, I didn't want to waste time creating a separate intro for each of them, so I just combined them into one longer-than-average chapter. Hopefully, it works!

-Finally, finally, FINALLY, we are done with the intros! Only took the better part of a year! Thanks for sticking with me all this time, I know I would have lost my patience with a story like this quite some time ago.

-This is the point where interesting things begin to happen. Also, these sections will become far shorter and more infrequent once we get into more plot-driven chapters. It'll be there every once in a while- just not nearly as present.

-Speaking of which, see you at the next chapter, the Reapings! May the odds be _ever_ in you favor!


	25. Reapings, D1-D6: Glass Half Full

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Glass Half Full**

* * *

 **Finally, Finally, FINALLY Reaping Day**

* * *

 **Summer Coxell, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

It always feels like the day before the Reapings takes forever.

When I was young, I always wanted to have the show hurried up a bit, to see the people we'd be fully immersed with for the next few weeks. Now, I'm so desperate to have my creation tested that I don't care if _we_ get tossed into that arena at this point. No matter what, I want to see it happen.

It's become tradition for the Head Gamemaker to host a party on Reaping Day, which is what I'm currently doing. The other Gamemakers are also here, helping themselves to snacks (including a wide variety of baked goods a few of them brought) and alcohol (even though it's only ten in the morning at this point).

One moment, everyone is scattered throughout the apartment that I call home. The next, the Capitol's anthem is playing, and everyone's rushing to get a decent seat on the couch facing the television. Five seconds later, all the Gamemakers (including me) are either on or around the couch, too many bodies clustered in too little space.

As the view on screen shifts to the lush landscapes of District One, Garden, sitting to my right, lets out a childish squeal. "It's starting!"

Sure enough, after a beautiful view of the District from above, it immediately transitions to the stage that has been hastily set up in the largest town square they have (District One has a wide enough expanse of area that a lot of people have to migrate a significant distance to make the Reaping in time) as the mayor finishes the last bit of the eternally-long Treaty of Treason. Once he gets off the stage, the drop-dead gorgeous escort steps on, and based on the noises I'm hearing around me, I'm pretty confident at least half the girls- and maybe one or two of the guys- have a major crush on him.

Diamond Iverson has been escorting since I was little, and it shows. He's done it for just about every District, being promoted to One only recently. However, from the looks the girls near the front of the packed crowd are giving him, you'd think that he'd been living there his whole life.

"Alright, everyone! You ready to see who our lucky couple is going to be?" He waits for the inevitable applause and shouting, and then saunters over to the girls' Reaping Bowl. "As always, ladies first!"

He fishes around in the bowl for a few seconds, pretending to try and make it seem random, but it's not like it matters at all. District One hasn't had a Reaped tribute in over thirty years at this point. It isn't likely that this year will be the streak-breaker.

He closes his hand around a slip, pulls it out, and reads it for a split second before addressing the audience. "And our female tribute is Miracle Tomesco!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" No surprise, a girl overrides the Reaped tribute, sparing Miracle of her almost-certain fate. As the volunteer girl extricates herself from the crowd, the first thing I notice is how- _dark_ she seems. Her skin is so pale you'd think she dunked herself in white paint, but everything else is black- black shoes, black dress, even a black hat that's jammed onto her head so I don't know what her hair color is.

Once she makes it to the stage, she turns to face Diamond. He smiles, like any good Escort should, and asks her "What's your name, sweetie?"

"I'm Clara. Clara Ridley. And please, do _not_ call me Sweetie."

"Okay! My bad," Diamond replies. "Now, let's see who'll join this bundle of joy!"

Clara scowls at Diamond as he sticks his hand into the boys' equivalent ball, and repeats the same process as last time. "And joining her will be Moonlight Hawzer!"

Moonlight actually manages to move a few steps over and smile quickly at the cameras before someone shouts "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Thankfully, this boy seems more normal. While the girl's outfit looks like it could suck the sun out of the sky if she wanted it to, he's wearing a simple blue shirt and black pants. As he gets on the stage, Diamond once again asks "What's your name?"

"My name is Nascar Galluci. Merchandise, Jewel, this is for you."

"And who are Merchandise and Jewel?"

"My siblings."

The audience, appropriately, lets out an "awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww," and Nascar moves to stand next to Clara.

Diamond gets in between them, and raises one of their arms apiece. "Ladies and gentlemen of District One, give it up for this year's tributes: Clara Ridley and Nascar Galluci!"

The audience erupts into thunderous applause, Nascar and Clara bow and wave to the crowd, and then the Peacekeepers escort them towards the Justice Building, where they'll get their final goodbyes.

Then, the image cuts to some commercials, which will be running until it's District Two's turn to pick their tributes.

All I can think is "two down, twenty-two more to go."

I can't wait to see what the other tributes will be like.

* * *

 **Cassidy Ervine, District Two Mentor and Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games**

* * *

It's a little tradition of ours that the mentors for the Career Districts all meet up for an informal lunch in the Capitol the week before the Reapings happen.

Considering our tributes and trainees will be working together throughout most of the Games (theoretically, anyway) it's nice to get to know things about them beforehand that will help us coach them on how to work better with the others.

We also have a brief discussion (usually towards the end when our tongues are a bit looser) about why we think our tribute could win. All of us were one-hundred percent confident that our tribute, not anyone else's, would eventually be standing as the sole victor of the Hunger Games.

I don't have even a shred of doubt that this year is my year. Iridium, the girl who I'll be mentoring, is an absolute beast. While I might have to work a little bit with some of her anger issues, she can do things with heavy weapons that I myself had difficulty with. Not to mention, she's more determined than any tribute I've seen in quite some time, having lost a cousin to the Games two years back.

So, when Champagne, our escort, takes the stage in her sky-high heels and dress made of fabric so fine it looks like a strong wind could demolish it, all I want her to do is hurry up. This Reaping has a foregone conclusion, lady! Stop pretending like what you pick matters!

In her bubbly voice, she tells the audience, "Time to pick a girl!" Then, she grabs a slip off the top, not even bothering to dig into the bowl to give a pretense of caring. "And this year's girl is-"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" A girl is shouting this at the top of their lungs before the escort can even finish her sentence. Well, someone's clearly an eager beaver.

However, once the girl steps out into the crowd, I realize that all of my carefully-plotted plans- pumping her up, spurring her on right when she needs it, helping her calm down, and getting our third Victor in the past ten years- have just been flushed down the toilet. The girl sprinting like crazy for the stage is most certainly _not_ Iridium, meaning I'm going to have to spend more time figuring out how this girl works and what makes her tick than helping her get along with the other Careers.

She takes a little while to traverse the distance between her area and the stage- her green dress and high heels don't exactly make for speedy running. Once she makes it to the stage, Champagne asks the obligatory question. "What's your name?"

Rasping a lot- which is not a good sign considering the run to the stage was _not_ that long- the volunteer girl chokes out "Galadia. Galadia Devinson."

Something clicks in my head about a half second after Champagne's. "Oh, are you related to Slate at all?"

"Yes, yes I am. I'm his daughter, and I'm ready to become a second-generation Victor."

Okay, so she was born to a previous Victor. Meaning she probably lives only a few houses down from me. I might have seen her once or twice, but I never really got to know her, since I'd never been close with Slate himself. At the very least, it means she probably has some decent training going for her, and she might get some sponsors just based on her last name.

I zone out as Champagne picks the guy, since I won't be mentoring whoever volunteers to replace him. However, I still hear it clear as day when she announces "And this year's boy is Shale Cebedil!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" Sure enough, someone in the crowd volunteers, and immediately begins rushing to the stage. And just based on the look, I can tell it's actually the person who was _supposed_ to volunteer this time. Heavily scarred, taller than most, dressed in dark colors, determined look in his eyes.

As he gets next to Galadia, Champagne shoves the microphone in his face. "And your name is?"

"I'm Godric, and I'm proud to be this year's volunteer for this fine District."

"And your last name is?"

Godric swallows hard, but he manages to spit it out in one fluid statement. "Runestone."

Well, crap. If he's _also_ a legacy tribute, most of the sponsors that might have gone to Galadia will probably pick him instead. Not that I don't have faith that I can still come up with a win, but just because I'm pretty confident nine people out of ten would say that Godric could beat Galadia in a fair fight before seeing what they could do.

"Oh, so you're-"

Godric cuts her off, and says, "Yes, I am. I'd like to be seen separately from him, though."

"Well, alright then."

Champagne gets between them, and announces the obvious. "Everyone give a round of applause to this year's tributes: Galadia Devinson and Godric Runestone!"

The crowd complies, cheering their lungs out as I get out of my seat to head for the train, where I'll get to know Galadia for who she really is.

Hopefully, I'm not as screwed as I think I am.

* * *

 **Corey Everett, Reaping-Eligible District Three Citizen**

* * *

I am so, so, so scared.

I've heard every excuse in the book to not be worried. I know it's only a few slips in the bowl and that it's never going to be me and that I've done nothing against the Capitol. That's not going to stop me from being nervous, and it never will.

I've been eligible for five years at this point, and since I take one tesserae each year to use as a backup in case things get _really_ bad, my name is in that bowl ten times. Ten slips have _Corey Everett_ written on them in careful handwriting. Any one of those ten slips could cut my life short. Any one could throw me into a death match.

The tension doesn't ease up when the mayor stops speaking, only getting worse. Our ridiculous escort, Mirabile Steinberg, steps onto the stage, looking ridiculous with his deep red skin and his bright green suit. He looks like a pine tree with a really bad sunburn.

As soon as he gets the microphone, he says, "Okay, let's get on with the show, everyone!"

No one applauds. Not even those who actually like this stupid death match. Their friends or family could very easily become the next victim.

Mirabile strides over to the girls' Reaping Bowl first, and fishes around in it, looking for a slip that he's satisfied with. It takes a while, but he eventually closes his hand around one and yanks it out of the bowl, before reading the name written on it.

"Could I please get a Miss Sotia Vance on the stage, please?"

Thankfully, that's not someone I know. I'd never even heard of her before this very moment.

As I look over to the side to figure out who it is, I see whoever this Sotia girl is step out into the empty lane. Her hair is neatly parted, and her dress is so yellow that it could probably rival the sun. She starts off with a few small steps towards the stage, but they gradually get longer and longer, and she picks her head up as she hops up the stairs to stand next to the escort.

Once Sotia gets situated on the stage, Mirabile moves over to the boys' Reaping Bowl and begins digging around in it.

I see it all. Every movement of his hand, every slip he grasps for a second before letting go to choose another one, every time he shakes his head. Each second feels like an hour. Once he finally grabs a slip and pulls it out of the bowl, everything seems to freeze. Nobody moves. Nobody blinks. I don't think anyone even breathes.

 _Please don't be me, please don't be me, please don't be me, please don't be me…_

"Could I please get a Mister Rhaemyr North on the stage, please?"

Then, everything comes back in a rush. The faded colors of the crowd become a hundred times brighter. The sun seems just a little bit warmer. Even the tight packing of my section doesn't seem so bad.

It wasn't me this time. I'm safe for another year. I know it's selfish to think this way, but I don't care.

As the chosen boy- Rhaemyr- moves up to the stage, I notice just how casual he looks. Ripped jeans, plain T-shirt, plain shoes, hair not even close to combed. Unlike Sotia, who looks so frilly and fancy and delicate that she resembles a life-sized doll, everything about Rhaemyr screams that he doesn't care that much about anything. Even his stride is casual and easy as he makes his way to the stage.

Once Rhaemyr is standing next to Sotia, Mirabile says two fateful words. "Any volunteers?"

Radio silence. No one raises their hand to save these two from their fate. It's not worth their lives. I feel the same way, unfortunately for them.

After about ten seconds, Mirabile yells out "Well, then here our your tributes for the year: Sotia Vance and Rhaemyr North!"

He pauses as if he's expecting applause, but nothing happens. No surprises there.

As he leads Rhaemyr and Sotia towards the Justice Building, the crowd begins to disperse, and I find myself pushed along by the thousands of others who have gathered here. Yet again, even though it's packed so tightly I can barely breathe, I'm happy to be here. Even if it's not the best position to be in.

You don't complain about much when the alternative is certain death.

* * *

 **Zinnia Goldfinch, Capitol Citizen**

* * *

The Career Districts are always my favorite Reapings to watch.

As much fun as it is to get an early look at the tributes, once you get past the Career Districts it gets depressing, really fast. I'm not a huge fan of depressing stuff.

Since it's summer break, Daria and Janice are perched on opposite ends of the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn, while Burton is "out at his day job," as he told me. Sure, he's probably just at a bar, watching the Reapings with friends right now, but isn't that what ninety percent of the Capitolites do today? It's one of the most important days of the year for us, so it's not like I blame them or anything.

My attention goes back to the television when the never-ending stream of commercials finally cuts off, leaving me with a view of the lovely escort for District Four, Turquoise Aluxam. Every inch of her skin is dyed the shade she's named after, as is her hair. She's also wearing gigantic hoop earrings with a vibrant blue sapphire dangling from each one, and a similarly-shaded, rippling dress I would _kill_ for, it looks so gorgeous.

As the camera pans to show the crowd, there's more smiles than frowns. Apart from One and Two, this is the only District you can count on for that. Even the kids know that the odds of being Reaped are so small that they'd have a better chance of being struck by lightning. (The escort for Four _did_ get struck by lightning once, but that's another story.)

Then, the shot cuts back to Turquoise, who flashes a dazzling smile at the masses before yelling, "Okay, people! Let's do this!" As sporadic cheers begin to escape from the crowd, Turquoise sashays over to the girls' Reaping Ball and begins digging around in it.

She takes forever, to the point that I want to scream at her to hurry up. The first half-dozen slips, she shakes her head and lets it drop. Eventually, and I do mean eventually, she comes up with one and opens it wide.

"Our lucky lady is Sandy Powers!"

The crowd parts, revealing a pitiful, shaking girl who can't be any older than thirteen, as she slowly begins making her way up to the stage. This whole time, questions are racing through my brain. Did something happen to the volunteer? Why hasn't she spoken up yet? Are we really going to be left with _this_ mess as the District Four Female?

However, all those worries are dispelled when a voice cries "I volunteer as tribute!" Relieved, Sandy runs back to the safety of her section, as a tall, thin girl steps out of the crowd to make her way to the waiting escort.

Her reddish-brown hair is tied up in a neat bun, and, strangely enough, she alternates between running and taking little steps towards the stage. The thing that catches my eye the most, oddly, is her dress. It's a standard, if fancy-looking dress, but that's not the strange thing about it…

I swear I've seen that dress before!

Once she gets to Turquoise, she asks her the obvious question. "What's your name?"

"I'm Sienna Starboard," is her simple reply.

Wait, that means…

"Related to Sirena at all?"

Sienna nods. "Well, duh. Just _look_ at me!"

Turquoise grins widely as Sienna goes to stand by her sister. "I can see the resemblance already. Let's see who our boy is going to be!"

She moves to the boys' bowl, repeats the same eternal process, and finally yanks something out of the bowl before revealing the name.

"And joining her, Jetty Wicski!"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" Someone's shouted that so loud, they drowned out whatever else Turquoise was going to say. A little rude, but hey, enthusiasm is never a bad thing in my book.

Whoever this volunteer is is tearing through the crowd, running at absolute top speed. His white shirt is getting damp from all the exertion, and I cringe at the sight of his pants getting covered in muck from the puddles he's not even trying to avoid. When he finally reaches the stage, sweaty and panting, Turquoise takes a moment to get the microphone in front of him. "And your name is…"

"I'm… Vick. Vick Even," he squeezes out.

"Well, okay then, Vick! Welcome," Turquoise says. Sienna breaks away from her sister to go stand by Vick, and Turquoise flashes one last dazzling smile for the audience. "Well, there you have it, everyone! Let's give a round of applause for Sienna Starboard and Vick Even!"

The crowd does just that, as expected, and then the television cuts to yet another commercial.

I'm honestly kind of happy it did- I need a break to make something to eat for everyone. Daria and Janice are probably starving right about now.

And trust me, even if the Reapings come back on earlier than expected, I won't be missing anything.

* * *

 **Terry Franzine, Gamemaker**

* * *

My mind is currently a swirling haze.

There was some good alcohol up for grabs when this party started, and even though I'm not a heavy drinker, the stuff tasted so good that it was easy to drink a glass of it. And then another. And another. Pretty soon, I lost count.

Even though I feel like I could pass out any second, I want to stay awake for one more District. District Five has always been a soft spot for me, and they've brought in contenders each of the last two years. Here's to hoping this one will send in Contender Number Three.

"To District Five!" I raise a silent toast to myself before downing my umpteenth glass of whatever this is. All of a sudden, the Capitol's anthem plays once more, and I bounce up and down on the couch cushions like a child as District Five's barren landscape fills the screen.

As the power plants whirl in the background, creating a sound effect that never goes away, the mayor hands off his microphone to the escort for Five, Ivy Sappaluck. Her vivid-green hair is entwined with flowers and hangs well down her back, trying to give off the impression of her namesake. On top of that, she has these mesmerizing purple eyes that I swear are trying to hypnotize me…

As I begin to rock back and forth, wondering why the room is starting to spin around, Ivy says something about the girls' Reaping Bowl before moving over to it. Craning my neck up towards the ceiling so I can get a good view of whatever's going on, Ivy appears to be upside down as she yanks a slip out from off the top. How she does that without them all falling out is beyond me.

"Is Catarina Lynn here today? Because I think this belongs to you," she says, giggling at her own private little joke. I'm giggling, too, but it's more because her dress has suddenly disappeared into thin air, and she's made no attempt to cover her… well… chest.

This Catarina Lynn girl begins to make her way to the stage, one small step at a time. She's really small, and she weighs ninety pounds, maximum. Every second feels like an hour as she slowly heads for the stage, an expression on her face that makes it clear she's repressing all her emotions, for now at least.

Once she's finally standing on the stage and wistfully staring into the crowd, probably hoping someone will save her, Ivy nonchalantly goes to choose a boy. One smooth motion later, she's holding a new slip in her hand and has opened it wide.

"Spark Emmersen! Is there a Spark Emmersen here today?"

As I get increasingly dizzy, this Spark kid ambles for the stage. He has a really absentminded smile on his face that makes me wonder if he's just as blasted as I am. In contrast to Catarina, this kid is tall and heavy, especially for District Five, where the lines of work usually don't involve that much exercise. His clothes aren't very fancy, but at least he looks clean, which is better than can be said for a good quarter of the Reaping-eligible population here.

"Any volunteers?" Ivy shouts this to the crowd as Spark finally gets on the stage, standing next to a shaking Catarina. To no one's surprise, the square becomes dead silent, and then Spark and Catarina become this year's District Five tributes.

"Well, Spark and Catarina, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Ivy's voice oozes with excess sweetness as she tries to figure out how she's going to make it for the next few weeks with these kids.

I'd try to figure it out myself, but all of a sudden a shade of red explodes across my vision. As I stand up, trying to blink it out of my eyes, I bump into someone else, and then my shirt becomes wet and sticky.

One instant, I'm upright. The next, I'm tumbling toward the carpeted floor, luckily avoiding everyone else on the way down.

A laugh echoes across the room, and then my brain checks out for some quick repairs.

* * *

 **Bacchus Varngel, District Six Escort**

* * *

In all honesty, I hate my job.

When I accepted this position three years ago, I knew that all the most desirable Districts, like One and Four, were already going to be filled. I knew only the worst ones would be left. I thought I could take it on- that I could slog my way through the mire of Twelve or the thick, choking smoke of Eight for a few years until the time came to move up a level on the totem pole.

Maybe I could. But District Six is sad on a whole new level.

Unlike the aforementioned Twelve and Eight, where there's resentment constantly brewing between us and them and you get dirty looks and dirt clods every step of the way, Six just seems… resigned. I guess year after year of losing has just hardened them so much that they no longer care anymore. I'm not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing for the District, but it sure is a negative for me. My self-motivational skills are not the best, and every second I'm here, the "no one else cares, so why should I" feeling gets just a little bit stronger.

Obviously, I can't say that. I don't know the exact number, but at least three hundred Capitolites applied for the position that I got. I'd be replaced in a heartbeat and no one would miss me.

As bad as this job is, unemployment in a place as lavish as the Capitol is even worse.

Oh, well. The mayor's finished talking, so it's time to see which two kids are going to die this year. I start for the girls' Reaping Bowl, but get interrupted by Jet (the male mentor for our District) falling off the chair he was supposedly paying attention from, hitting his head on the floor, and passing out.

Sadly enough, this isn't even the first time I've seen that. "Can someone carry him back to the tribute train?"

In seconds, four Avoxes- one for each limb- grab his arms and legs, hoist him up and start taking him back to the train. We've already had quite a show here, and I haven't even picked the tributes yet. Better speed this up.

Darting over to the girls' Reaping Bowl, I sift through the slips for less than five seconds before pulling one out. Trying to make sense of the handwriting (whoever does the Reaping Bowls for Six _really_ needs to take a penmanship class or two), I begin to stumble over the poor girl's name.

"Uh, Z-Zari… Morleat? Morlotte? I'm sorry, I can't really tell from this crappy handwriting…"

The bone-dry clearing everyone who's Reaping-eligible stays still for a few moments, but then Peacekeepers move in and begin inspecting the crowd. However, before they can find whoever it was that the slip was written for, a girl steps out on her own. The nearest Peacekeeper, a burly woman with red hair creeping out her helmet, tries to put a hand on her shoulder, but the girl brushes it off and starts for the stage on her own.

Halfway there, she begins walking backward, and then she begins to move her hands frantically as she slows down a bit, staring at a particular spot in the seventeen-year-old section. At first, nothing happens there, but then another girl, who has thick earmuffs on despite the sweltering heat, begins to move her own hands. I know there has to be a reason for this, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

When she gets to the stage, she gives me a sunny smile, which to me either means she's already accepted her death or she doesn't comprehend what's going on.

"Hey. Just so you know, my name is Zari. Zari Morelett. Just so you know."

Or, maybe neither. Then again, everything I think about tributes is proven wrong at least twice a day, so I shouldn't even be surprised anymore.

So, I decide to ignore Zari for now and focus on getting my other tribute up here. I take two steps towards the girls' bowl again, correct myself, and soon find myself standing by the bowl full of boys' slips. I do the same quick grab-and-go thing from before, opening it to find, yet again, that I have no idea what this tribute's name is supposed to be.

"Rem… Hemlok? Is someone here named Rem Hemlok?" As I scan the crowd to see who I'm getting, I think, "What kind of stupid name is that?"

However, that mishap soon gets fixed when the Peacekeepers manage to find a boy in the thirteen-year-old section. I'm guessing this is Rem Hemlok, but nothing expected me for this to be the type of kid who got Reaped. Everything about this guy screams "rich kid," from the fact that he's wearing a suit and tie to the expression of utter shock that her has on his face.

He's taking little baby steps to the stage, getting pushed along by Peacekeepers whenever he moves too slowly. After what feels like an eternity, he's finally joined the rest of us on the stage.

"My name's Remi, dude. Not Rem. And Hamick, not Hemlok," he says, obvious displeasure tinging his voice. I'm not sure whether he's angrier about him getting Reaped or the fact that I got his name wrong, but those are worries for another time.

"Anyone willing to volunteer?" All I get in response to _that_ futile statement is a sudden wind kicking up, feeling like it could knock someone over. Luckily, everyone remains upright.

After about ten solid seconds of absolutely nothing happening, I cut it off then and there. "Well, here's your tributes, everyone: Zari Morelett and Remi Hamick!"

The crowd doesn't seem to react. Normally, I'd expect cheering (hell, I'd be fine with booing at this point) but everyone remains still and silent. A few more seconds crawl by, and then I scramble to gather my belongings so I can get away from these walking corpses as fast as possible.

The only problem with that is that I'll have to deal with at least two of them later. And unless this District somehow gets another victor, they're going to haunt me until the day they die.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I was originally going to make this one big chapter, but considering what a behemoth this chapter is, I don't even _want_ to think about what a nightmare it would have been to read all twelve Reapings slapped together at once. So, I'm breaking it up into two slightly less nightmarish sections.

-Thanks to everyone who sent me tributes from Districts 1-6.

-Districts 7-12 are next. See you then!


	26. Reapings, D7-D12: Glass Half Empty

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Glass Half Empty**

* * *

 **I Mean, What Other Day Could It Possibly Be?**

* * *

 **Ash Quinonez, District Seven Mentor and Victor of the 69th Hunger Games**

* * *

The bottle of alcohol in my hand feels warm and damp.

I brought the thing along in case the memories threaten to come surging back, but I think I'm safe from them here. For now, at least. I hope I don't have to drink it here, though- getting a first look at the tributes before you see them is essential if you want to get a head start. Thus, I set the bottle under my chair for now.

Every inch of space anywhere near the stage is filled with a person, to the point where viewing the scene from above would reveal nothing but a multicolored mosaic of hair. Luckily enough, it's sunny and warm out, so there's no need for umbrellas today.

However, the beautiful weather won't change how rotten this day is and always will be. I had the exact same feeling when it was my turn to get on that stage.

Our hideous escort, some middle-aged lady who's only known as Rainbow, doesn't seem bothered, though. She has so many implants that I'm pretty confident she's more metal than human, and with her rainbow-dyed hair, color-changing eyes, and clothes so bright that I'm worried looking at them too long will make them go blind. As of now, she's trying to make some stupid puns or something, but she's so bad at it that the only reactions she's getting are groans.

After a few failed attempts, the lady looks hurt. "Whatever. Let's just see which two of you will be coming along with me!"

She lazily makes her way over towards Bowl Number One- I don't even know if the boys or the girls are going first. As she digs through, I try to scan the names and figure out what gender this picking is for, but to no avail.

When she finally makes her pick, it's pretty obvious that whoever is coming will be a girl. "Alexa Dobio, wherever you are, you're our girl for the year!"

Well, this tribute isn't mine, but I pay attention anyway. The girl who pushes her way out of the crowd doesn't seem shy. I've seen people have to get dragged out of their age group before, and none of them have been pretty. However, this girl appears to have no time for that, despite the fact that she's definitely on the smaller side. She isn't running full-out for the stage, but she's moving a lot faster than most would. To top it all off, she isn't crying or even showing a hint of fear. I'm not sure she's showing _any_ emotion at all, to be honest.

She vaults onto the stage, sort of like a deer, before moving to stand as far away from Rainbow as possible. As Rainbow goes to select a boy, she noticeably moves to stay out of her way. "Okay, it's time to find your match!" As she giggles at her own private joke, she plunges her hand into the other bowl. It's in there for what feels like an eternity before she finally picks the tribute.

"We've found your match, Alexa! It's going to be Leaf Viagon!"

Leaf gets pulled out of the eighteen-year-old section by a Peacekeeper, fear evident on his face. But before he makes it more than a few steps forward, a voice cries out "I volunteer!"

Wow. Now _that_ is surprising. Especially since that's the second one in two years for this District. And once the volunteer boy makes himself known, I become even more confused. Last year, the volunteer was clearly the older brother of the twelve-year-old who got Reaped. This kid looks absolutely nothing like Leaf did. While Leaf was wearing brightly colored hand-me-down clothes, this kid's wearing all-black clothing that screams "I'm depressed and I need everyone else to see it." (I know that because I went through a phase like that at some point, too.) This guy doesn't look like someone who's eligible for the Hunger Games- he looks like a kid who needs some mental help.

Rainbow steps to block his path as he hurries towards Alexa. "What's your name, dude?"

"It's Aryion. Aryion Hylus."

"Nice to know! Now what prompted you to step up for the boy who would have been here instead?"

Aryion says nothing. Thankfully, after about fifteen seconds of awkward silence, Rainbow realizes that it's in her best interest to stop asking about it.

"Thanks for the information!" Rainbow's shout is so loud and obnoxious that Aryion makes a move to cover her ears. "Would anyone like to volunteer for Alexa?"

Silence. It feels blissful, after all of Rainbow's auditory torture. Even if Alexa is hoping for someone, anyone to take her place, it doesn't look like today is her lucky day.

After a few moments, Rainbow's voice fills the air. "Well, it's time to send Alexa Dobio and Aryion Hylus off! Let's wish them luck in these Games!"

A few people clap, halfheartedly. Most do nothing. Not surprising in the slightest.

Before I get up to accompany the girls' mentor back to the train that will take us to the Capitol, I remember to snatch the bottle from where I left it, and clench the thing in one hand as I walk.

Something tells me that I'm going to need it soon.

* * *

 **Button Nishum, Reaping-Eligible District Eight Citizen**

* * *

Before the mayor finishes his long, long, _long_ speech about the Treaty of Treason, I feel the back of my head to make sure my lucky hair ribbon is safely in place.

Every day someone in my family is eligible to be Reaped, they always wear one of the four faded, fraying hair ribbons that have been passed down for generations. Even if it's a guy. (In that case, they just wrap it around their wrist like a bracelet.) It's a sort of lucky charm- no one in my family has ever been Reaped while wearing that, or ever, for that matter. However, that doesn't make me feel any safer.

I currently have the bright pink one tied in a bow around my dirty brown hair. In the twelve-year-old section, my younger brother, Fabric, has the green one. I'm standing in a crowd of fifteen-year-olds, some nervously talking to each other, most silent. I'm among the silent ones. I don't want to do anything that will make me stand out.

The feeling of dread sloshing around inside me only intensifies when the mayor's speech finally ends. I didn't process a word of it, I'm so nervous.

Our escort, a spindly man named Sunrise Vinson, mounts the stage. His hair and face has been painted in a way so that if you look at it from _just_ the right angle, it looks like the rising sun. The only problem is that any other angle makes it look like he has a nasty sunburn that somehow spread to his hair. No one's called him out on it, since it probably took him hours to get the look that he wanted, but it still makes him look ridiculous.

He looks exhausted, and honestly, I can't really blame him. It's a sort of urban legend that the smoke that prevents us from being able to see the actual sun is laced with chemicals that make people pass out. While it's never been scientifically proven, I still believe it.

My nervousness is _especially_ prevalent when he gets to the Reaping Bowl, I'm assuming for the girls. My heart threatens to explode out my chest, I think I could throw up any second, and I'm pretty confident the pounding headache I have right now was not there five minutes ago.

He fishes through the bowl for what feels like forever. Every moment stretches out. It feels like everyone here is collectively holding their breath. A slip gets pulled out, and everything grinds to a halt.

For a second, anyway.

"Button Nishum, please come up to the stage."

And then my world shatters.

The Peacekeepers are coming. Oh crap, this is really happening.

I'm dead. No doubt. I can't fight to save my life, I have no upper body strength, and I can't differentiate between plants for the life of me. As I get yanked out into the straightaway towards the stage, all I can think is "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die…"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

Great, now I'm hearing things. No one's coming to save me, that's for sure.

However, the moment the girl stepped out of the crowd and began running at a full sprint for the stage, I realize I was not, in fact, hearing things. I've been saved. Saved! In a District where Victors are pretty rare, no less. I want to burst out into laughter, but now is not the time.

The girl darts past. I start to say, "Thank you," but I'm not sure if she even hears it. With a couple of swishes of pale blue fabric, she makes it onstage, right as Sunrise jams the microphone into her face. "Wow, a surprise volunteer! What's your name?"

"My name is Lacey Loveless, and-"

Sunrise cuts her off. "That's an odd last name, if I've ever heard one."

Lacey does _not_ take that kindly. "You think I chose my last name? Don't ask me, ask the first Loveless out of all of us. Never mind, he's probably dead by now."

Sunrise is taken aback, but manages to keep his composure. "And why did you volunteer? Any relation to Button?"

"No, not at all. I volunteered because I wanted to. I'm ready to go."

Sunrise tries the prompt a few more times, but Lacey continually dances around the question until Sunrise decides that it'd be easier to drop the subject. "Well, after that shocker, we still have one more tribute left to go. Time to select a boy," he says as he goes over to the Reaping bowl.

I've been swallowed up by the mass of fifteen-year-olds and deemed safe, but that doesn't mean we're out of the woods yet. Fabric still has to weather it out for a few more minutes.

I'm thinking, "If he gets picked, I'm going to scream."

However, my voice stays down, as this pick seems to come by a lot faster. "Romeo Brady, please come up to the stage."

A spindly boy pushes his way out of the crowd from the other side, one section in front of me. His clothes look kind of saggy, and his stride doesn't exactly help, as the folds of fabric swish back and forth in the barely-existing breeze. Every step looks like it hurts, and his arms, unlike Lacey's, swing fruitlessly by his sides.

That's when I notice his hands. It might just be the way the light- or whatever bits of light slip through the smoky sky- is hitting his arms, but it looks like he's several fingers short. He only has three fingers plus a stump that used to be another finger left on the hand that I can see from here. I don't see enough of his other hand to see if he has five fingers on that one, but I'm not too keen to find out.

As Romeo makes it to the spot next to Lacey, Sunrise calls out "Anyone want to volunteer for this guy?"

Nothing. I feel horrible for him: if whoever this Lacey girl is hadn't stepped up for me, then I'd be in the same situation as him.

Sunrise only waits for a few seconds. Then, he shouts, "Well, give it up for this year's tributes: Lacey Loveless and Romeo Brady!"

No one cheers. No one claps. The square remains silent, even as the crowd begins to disperse and go back to whatever they'd normally be doing.

Before I can even get out of my section, my mother finds me and wraps her arms around my chest. "Button, my baby! I thought you were dead!"

Her hug is a sweet gesture, but I'm also worried she's going to break my ribs in the process. A weepy Fabric comes along soon enough, followed by my father, who still has an expression of utter shock on his face. I don't blame him. Not when I was about fifteen seconds away from a very painful death. Speaking of which…

"Mom, can you let me go? I want to go see the girl who saved me."

"But-"

"But what? The girl just saved my freakin' life! I should be allowed to say thank you, or at least something!"

She doesn't object to that, so I make the decision to run like hell for the Goodbye Room, as I call it.

Even though I'm not coming along with her, I can at least wish her luck.

* * *

 **Miller Eaton, District Nine Mentor and Victor of the 94th Hunger Games**

* * *

I'm getting intense deja vu, just from sitting here.

Every detail remains crisp and vivid in my memory. The girl they sent up to the stage before me, the escort picking my slip and calling me to the stage, the utter silence when they asked for volunteers, the sheer terror radiating from the two of us as armed Peacekeepers escorted us to holding room where we received our goodbyes, and all the rest.

As I look over to try and talk to Anisa, my female counterpart, I find that she has thick headphones over her ears, and they're attached to some kind of music player. I've seen her a lot, and she spends more time with those bulky monstrosities on her ears than without. Her husband said that she needed it as a way to drown out the screams she keeps hearing. I know that such a thing makes sense, but it's still annoying when she's the only help I have in this game.

I should know. Ever since Anisa and her husband survived the games in consecutive years, earning the title of "The Miracle Couple," they've had to cope with the monsters they unleashed. Even though I only made one kill, I still have my own to deal with.

Boy, mentoring for the first time must be tough. For all I know, I could be helping a kid older than me try and avoid a grisly fate. And from the knowledge of the Games that I have, that's not going to be easy.

I think I had to learn the escort's name on the train, but I've since forgotten it. All I know is that she tries to be all hip and edgy by wearing all dark colors, including painting her face midnight blue. Instead, she comes off as the type of person who would throw herself off a building if it meant getting sympathy from someone else.

Wordlessly, she moves over to grab a slip for a girl. After what feels like endless searching and half-picking slips before dropping them and plunging her hand back in, she finally, finally makes her choice.

"I'm looking for Toren Laris."

My stomach clutches in a knot. The mayor's false smile falls right off his face. The entire square- well, a lot of the children are attempting to hold back smiles, but at least the adults are pretending to be concerned.

As soon as she begins to make the trek to the stage, her lime-colored dress rippling around her and her face obscured by too much makeup, the thought I had becomes a certainty.

 _Holy crap, that's the mayor's daughter._

Half the pool of eligible kids are smiling at this point, and a few are even laughing out loud, even as she- and the mayor- glare at them with everything that they have, willing for them to shut up. They don't. It's a noise that only gets worse the closer she gets to the stage.

The escort gets bored of waiting, so before Toren even makes it all the way, she makes her move to choose a boy. It's the same long, drawn-out process, that she stretches out enough for Toren to finish the walk to the stage.

"I need Marius Coin to join her, please."

The snickering from the crowd gets louder, somehow. Marius, unlike Toren, seems collected as he steps out into the lane. However, I recognize him almost instantly as soon as he lifts his head. We might not be friends, but I see him at the bakery I work in at least three times a week. No matter the weather, no matter the season. Eventually, you just start to connect the dots as soon as you see these people.

Marius is sure as hell doing a lot better job walking up to the stage than I was. The Peacekeepers are mostly behind him, just making sure he doesn't go too slow or try to make a break for it. When _I_ had to do that walk, the Peacekeepers practically had to drag me onto the stage. While I didn't care at the time, since I figured I'd be dead soon anyway, that did not make a good first impression for my potential sponsors.

Marius makes it there, and stands next to Toren as the escort finishes reading her script. "Well, these are the tributes of the 95th Hunger Games: Toren Laris, and Marius Coin. May the odds be ever in their favor."

She doesn't even wait for applause, she's been here for three years and gotten used to this crowd. Instead, she takes both of them toward the familiar room where those they care about will say their goodbyes.

Anisa gets up, heading for the Tribute Train, where we'll meet them as soon as their loved ones see them off. She does not, however, take off her headphones.

All I know is that mentoring them, especially since this is my first time around, is not going to be easy.

* * *

 **Garden Flowers, Gamemaker**

* * *

Everyone around me is passed out. Well, _almost_ everyone.

Except for Summer, who wants to actually watch the Reapings and get to know the tributes a little early, and Achilles, who always has a firm limit of three drinks per session, I'm the only one still awake. I don't drink yet; I don't want the alcohol to ruin my pretty face. Especially with all these people telling me that might be all I'll ever be.

Then, I notice one of the snoring Gamemakers subconsciously trying to hug my leg. I move it out of the way, and then he starts drooling. So. Gross.

Summer's entire apartment is filled with passed-out people, even though it isn't even two in the afternoon yet. I guess the fancy champagne was too sweet to resist for everyone here, except for the three of us.

While Seven and Eight surprised everyone who was still awake, including me, Nine was standard enough that Achilles is starting to nod off, meaning that Summer and I are the only two still watching. She's on the far end of the couch, a bottle of water in hand, and I'm on the close end with two of the last cupcakes balanced on a plastic plate.

District Ten finally comes into view on the screen, breaking up the monotony that has started to set in. It's not like District Ten is super impressive viewed from above- mile after mile of farmland and pastures and occasionally some cropland for animal feed- but it's better than the commercials and static that have plagued us for the past fifteen minutes.

The escort, some lady named Swan Reperibos, looks almost exactly like her namesake. From the beak to the white feathers to even the wings, although she left her fingers intact so she could still hold a microphone. She's been doing this District for ten years, so her face is pretty recognizable at this point (like it wasn't already).

Anyway, it's time to see who will represent the District in the Games. I can't wait!

Swan daintily strides over to the bowl, plunging her hand into the mass of slips. She doesn't see fit to just pick one and go, though- she digs all the way to the bottom of the bowl to pull out the one she wants.

"Artesia Alexander," she says, her beak mangling her voice quite a bit.

As the girl pushes her way out of the crowd, I get to take her in for the first time. Her hair looks nice, but the good things about her looks end there. Her shirt is messy and stained, her jeans are ragged, ripped, and several sizes too big (she has to hold it up with one hand to make sure it doesn't fall down on the walk to the stage) and her shoes, while they might have looked nice at one point, are so worn down that it looks like any sense of life fled the things screaming.

The expression on her face- it's almost not an expression at all. Not sad, but not smiling, either. I can't tell if she has no idea what the Games are or what, because you'd think a girl like that would be crying at this point.

Swan moves on once Artesia gets to the stage, doing the same thing again for the other bowl, presumably to pick a boy to join her. Once again, the slip is dug out from the very bottom of the bowl before Swan opens and reads it.

"Faolan Drover."

The square stays still for a few seconds. No one steps up to claim their spot. Time appears to slow to a standstill.

Then the Peacekeepers are moving and moving fast, combing the boys' section to find this guy. About fifteen seconds in, there's a shout, and suddenly a taller kid is being shoved out into the center by five different Peacekeepers.

As soon as he looks up at the camera, though, my jaw drops. I lose the ability to speak. The plate slides off my lap and lands on the carpet, and I don't even care.

This guy is _such_ a hunk. He's almost certainly taller than I am, and he's ripped. His expression doesn't really match his body, though- he's appeared to have frozen up. Panic attack. He wouldn't be the first tribute to have one. However, he appears to recover about halfway to the stage, dusting off his clothes and breaking into a jog to join Artesia on the stage. Then, he smiles for the camera, looking soooooo handsome...

"Garden. Garden! GARDEN!"

Annoyed, I turn over to look at Summer. "What's the big deal?"

"You got a case of the dreamy eyes again. Sorry, but we can't have that here, it makes people biased. No crushing on the tributes, OK?"

"Fine," I say with a huff. He just looks so handsome!

Faolan has made his way next to Artesia at this point, and Swan's so used to this that she doesn't even ask for volunteers. "Well, if no one's volunteered by now, chances are they're not ever doing so. So, let's say goodbye to this year's tributes: Artesia Alexander and Faolan Drover."

No applause, but there is some concern, mostly occurring in a few big clusters. If I had to guess, that's where their parents are.

Then the screen cuts to static, and it's time to wait once more for the final two Reapings.

Picking up the cupcakes and plate I dropped earlier, I tell Summer, "This was a great party, but I'm ready to go home. Hope you enjoy the last two Reapings. Thanks for all this."

I walk out the door, heading for the nearly-empty streets of the place I love so much.

* * *

 **Aleena Carroway, Capitol Talk Show Host**

* * *

Our show is off the air right now, and I'm currently watching the Reapings with Miracle, my co-host.

We go back on the air at six o'clock to talk about the Reapings and make our own predictions. So right now, we're watching them with an intense fervor, taking notes on every tribute to try and figure out who they are before everyone else. The big screen in front of us is showing nothing but commercials right now, so we're utilizing the spare time to take notes.

As of now, I'm wrapping up, the boy from 10 near done. I finish the notes off with a simple, _definite contender. Largest Outer District kid since at least Flare. Definite Anti-Career, if they form up this year._

My timing couldn't be any better, for as soon as I put down the pen, the commercials turn off and the parched hellhole that is District Eleven shows up. I swear the temperature in the room goes up just from being exposed to that place.

District Eleven doesn't bother with a stage for the Reaping- just a square of dirt that's been baking in the sun for Panem knows how long. Even the escort, some guy named Elysium, is sweating profusely, and he's gotten used to temperatures like this over the years.

As the sun beats down on the populace, Elysium desperately waves his handheld fan to try and counter the oppressive heat. It doesn't work one bit, judging by his expression, and the nonexistent breeze isn't helping.

Not wanting to spend any more time outside than necessary, he takes the microphone off the mayor's hands immediately and makes a move for the bowl. He doesn't even try to make it look random, just sticking his hand a few inches in and grabbing something. I don't even know if this is supposed to be a boy or a girl yet.

"Thomiah Marshall."

Just two words, and they're some of the fateful ones that anyone could say. Thomiah definitely seems like a boy's name, but who knows?

Sure enough, it does belong to a boy. Or at least a guy. This kid definitely looks more like a man than a boy. He's taller than just about everyone I've seen so far, and while not a tower of muscle like some of the Careers, he's not scrawny. Even better, a winning smile is stretched across his face, even as he marches towards almost certain death. His plain brown shirt and ripped pants help too, both showing off his body and projecting that he's just another one of them.

While they cover his walk to the stage, I manage to scribble down, _Scratch what I just wrote, this kid's even bigger. This is definitely a good year for outliers. Seems really confident._

By the time I've finished, Elysium has already made the move to pick a girl. The entire process takes seconds.

"Odysea Davos."

The girl that pulls away from the crowd looks smaller than Thomiah, but not by too much. Her dark hair is tied behind her in some attempt at a braid, and her scrunched-up facial features make it so that I can't really tell the color of her eyes yet. While she isn't smiling like Thomiah was, she's not a crier. And trust me, we've had a few so far today.

Just like with the last kid, I'm scribbling down assumptions about this kid as she heads over to stand by Thomiah. _Definitely pretty. Looks like she might have some skill, though. Might be a contender, might be nothing. Hard to see yet._

She keeps her cool as she stands next to Thomiah on the stage, even if she looks a bit small by comparison. Elysium just does his standard thing once he gets there, not wasting a single second. "Anybody here want to replace one of them?"

Dead silence. I'm pretty confident that if someone had an allergic reaction or started getting choked in the background, we'd hear it. However, no reactions, attempted chokings, or cries of "I volunteer as tribute!" occur in the background. After a few seconds, Elysium gets tired of waiting and raises the tributes' arms.

"Well, these are your tributes, District Eleven: Thomiah Marshall and Odysea Davos!"

As the screen cuts to static, Miracle and I immediately start scribbling in the journals, writing down every possible thing that comes to mind about the two of them.

We have an hour to fill about these tributes, so every second of material counts.

* * *

 **Vincent Wainwright, President of Panem**

* * *

All twenty-two tributes before me looked like possible contenders.

Even the kid with the missing fingers (The camera made that _very_ clear on his walk to the stage) looked like he could have a shot if he played his cards right. However, it's time for District Twelve, the district who sends in candidates who have the least hope of all.

Even though District Six has had a longer stretch between victors than District Twelve has (twenty-seven years vs. twenty years) District Six has at least gotten close a few times. Ever since District Twelve escaped with its third victor, it's gotten a grand total of three tributes to the final eight, and two of them got eighth. (District Six has gotten eight, and one made it to second.)

It's been an unofficial rumor for the past ten years that it's near-impossible to get Reaped in District Twelve once you turn sixteen. Some suspected that President Snow (the man whose reign I followed up) ordered that any capable kids in District Twelve got their names taken out of the Reaping Bowl, so they would never had a chance to win. While no one was able to confirm said rumor, District Twelve was pretty hopeless for a while.

Once I took over, I believe it stopped, or at least is practiced to a much lesser extent. At the very least, some older kids have been Reaped in the last decade. However, the four Games before have all been pretty pathetic showings for this District.

The District's Escort is a new face who was just hired a few months ago. She's a young lady named Ribbon, and she's wearing an outfit designed to make her look like some kind of toddler, complete with a onesie, pink hair ribbons, and the mind-numbingly innocent expression she's wearing on her face like a mask.

"Look, I like doing this about as much as you do," she says. "Let's make this quick and painless."

As much as someone could take that as saying that she hates her job, it's clear she's just trying to forge a connection to them. I respect that; people who get ingrained in a specific District tend to have better reception, especially here in the Capitol.

She takes quick, deliberate steps over to the bowl closer to her, and shuffles all the slips around with her hands for a few seconds before pulling one out.

"Satchel… Fox?" Then, she turns to the camera. "Did you guys give me District Eight's bowl by mistake? I've never heard that name before."

However, that dilemma gets solved in record time, before anyone in the Capitol can start to well and truly panic. A pint-sized girl, twelve or maybe thirteen, is being dragged out of the crowd by several Peacekeepers. And I do mean that literally. She hasn't moved her feet once the entire time. She's light enough that the Peacekeepers can carry her up to the stage without much difficulty, but her size does not match the expression of pure and utter hate in her eyes. The black pants and old, ripped-up jacket fit the profile a little better, though.

When the Peacekeepers drop her- literally- on the stage, she scrambles to her feet and begins to speak, drowning out whatever Ribbon is trying to say. "Uh, I go by Fox now. Fox Angel. So just call me that, _please._ " That last word has a sharp bite to it, one that I probably should have seen coming, given that her entire face is still twisted into a grotesque snarl.

"Okay! Thanks for sharing," Ribbon says, as she hurriedly moves over to pick a boy. Chances are, she wants to spend as little time near Fox as possible. I get why. A girl that young should _never_ look that enraged.

Fox is pacing back and forth across the stage as Ribbon scoops a slip off the very top of the bowl. She opens the thing so fast that a big rip appears, nearly tearing the thing in half. Luckily, enough of the thing remains readable for her to decipher a name after a few uneasy seconds.

"Maxxer Bent," she says. Then, she mumbles something under her breath that the subtitle staff doesn't catch.

This Maxxer kid steps out on his own, and my first thought is, "What is it with these tributes and the color black?"

I don't know how many kids have come out onto the stage in all-black at this point, but it's at least three. What happened to the tributes, especially the Careers, having some kind of signature color other than black? Is that some kind of weird fashion trend that I've just never noticed?

Either way, he's headed up to the stage. While he's not crying yet, his ability to mask his emotions isn't quite as strong as most of the others. Unlike some of the tributes, who simply look like nothing has gone wrong, you can tell this kid is trying to hide tears.

Only one more event of note occurs on the way up to the stage. About three-quarters of the way there, a hand shoots out from the crowd and grabs him for a few seconds. Whoever the hand belongs to seems to try and talk to Maxxer, but he shrugs it off and keeps going. Eventually, he sort-of joins Fox on the stage, but he stands still as Fox just keeps on marching back and forth across the thing.

Once Fox passes by Ribbon once more, she grabs Fox's arm in some kind of attempt to hold her in place. "Anyone want to volunteer for these two?"

There's silence in response to that. Or at least I think there's silence. Fox is struggling against Ribbon's grip, and the noises she's making trying to wrench herself loose drowns out everything else. After fifteen endless seconds, when Fox has started to make real progress, Ribbon tries to end the ceremony in some kind of orderly fashion.

"I present to you, your, ugh, two tributes," she gets out, her voice strained as Fox begins to wriggle free. Peacekeepers are moving in from both sides to try and restore order, but it might be too late. "Maxxer Bent, and, and-"

Then the recording cuts off and it goes to commercial. I can only assume what happened after that point did _not_ work out well. If I really want the details, I'll have plenty of opportunities to ask Ribbon over the next week.

Quietly, I click the remote and turn off the television.

This Games is going to be interesting, that's for sure.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-And there's the other twelve tributes! Sorry for the lack of variety towards the end, there's only so many POVs I can come up with for this. (At least I spread it to two chapters- I can only imagine how boring it would have been if it was just one 11,000 word nightmare.)

-Next up is the Goodbyes chapter. We'll be seeing Clara, Rhaemyr, Vick, Catarina, Aryion and Lacey having their time in their own Goodbye Rooms, although not necessarily in that order.

-A poll is going up on my profile. Who is/are your favorite tribute(s) so far? If you have a really strong opinion, please vote! **(EDIT, 2/3/20: Poll is now closed.)**

-See you next chapter!


	27. Goodbyes: The Ones We Leave Behind

**Chapter Twenty-Six: The Ones We Leave Behind**

* * *

 **Technically Still Reaping Day**

* * *

 **Clara Ridley, District One Female**

* * *

This place is breathtaking.

I've been inside here once before- to say goodbye to last year's chosen female, Scarlett. We weren't close friends or anything, but she was nice to train alongside. We learned a lot from each other, and all in all, I was happy she was there.

She didn't make it back home, unfortunately. But all the tips she passed on to me remained. Trust me, if anyone else thinks they can win these Games, they've got another thing coming.

However, I have to survive ten minutes with my parents in this enclosed space first. I figured the probability of them- or at least my father- going ballistic was pretty high once they got in the room, and once they enter, I realize that I'm probably going to be right. My mom just looks worried, clutching Alvar just a little too tightly as she walks in, but I can practically see the steam coming off my dad's face.

As soon as he gets close enough, he leans in to get as close to my face as possible before whispering, "Young lady, you _better_ be able to explain yourself. Right. This. Instant."

"First off, personal space," I say, causing Dad to take maybe half a step back. Secondly, I have a bit of a secret to tell you."

Mom actually summons up the courage to speak for once. "I'm listening."

"Remember when you told me that the exercise place a few blocks away was one of the few places I was allowed to go on my own?"

They nod.

"Yeah. About that, I never went there. I was actually going to the Hunger Games Training Center to prepare for this. I have been for about six years at this point."

Mom looks away. However, Dad's face goes such a deep shade of red I'm legitimately worried that he might explode. About fifty feet away, another set of parents and two kids (presumably Nascar's family) have started giving us really weird looks. I don't blame them. My father may be an insane, hyper-controlling nut job, but he goes to some effort to rein it in whenever he leaves the house. There have been many private instances of something like this, but this will be his first public one (and hopefully his last).

"You have no idea how hard I'm restraining myself so I don't slap you into next week," he growls. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?"

I keep my mouth firmly closed, any response here runs the risk of making everything worse. If it gets really bad, the Peacekeepers standing watch can help break it up.

"YOUR MOTHER AND I HAVE SLAVED AWAY FOR THE PAST EIGHTEEN YEARS OF YOUR LIFE, TRYING TO TURN YOU INTO A PRODUCTIVE AND HAPPY HUMAN BEING, AND YOU GO AND FLUSH IT ALL DOWN THE TOILET LIKE THAT!? YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, DISRESPECTFUL EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING, YOU KNOW THAT!?"

"Fraser-" Mom tries to say something, but it gets ignored. Everyone in the room is staring at Dad right now. I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved.

"EVERYTHING WE DID, EVERY CHOICE WE MADE, WAS FOR YOUR BENEFIT, AND YOURS ALONE. AND YOU TREAT US LIKE THIS!?"

He'd probably have a lot more to say, but the Peacekeepers in the room have finally had enough. Swift and silent, two march up, one grabbing each of Dad's arms. Even as he's being dragged out, he's still going on.

"IF AND WHEN YOU EVER GET HOME, I WILL GROUND YOU UNTIL-"

His rant is cut off by the door slamming shut. The room is relatively silent once again.

Mom looks small and frail, even without Dad by her side. "Look, sweetie, he's just worried about you-"

"And he communicates that he's worried by screaming in my face? Mom, you don't have to dance around it; he has anger issues. Just go out and say it. And I already said this, but don't call me sweetie. I'm eighteen!"

"Clara, relax. I'm just really nervous about you leaving. You might never come back. And why were you lying to us for all these years?"

"Because you would have shut it down, just like everything else I enjoyed in my life. This was the only thing I had that was private. It wasn't getting constant scrutiny from one of you because it was too dangerous. It was the one thing I had to myself, and that no one else interrupted! I wanted some freedom in my life, and this is where I found it!"

I expect her to say something, or at least tear into me like Dad did. However, she does neither. Instead, she closes her eyes and lets the tears fall, not even bothering to hide them. She makes her move for the exit, not saying anything as she slips out the door.

Her exit is followed by Diamond and Myland's entrances. Diamond is wearing a grin stretching from ear to ear, whereas Myland is trying to look that happy, but failing miserably. He can barely keep his smile from wavering.

"We wanted to wait until after they left, but good luck," Diamond says.

"Please make it home," Myland adds. "We've been together for so long… I'm not sure if I'll be the same if you don't come back."

"Don't worry. I'll make it home. And I will see you guys again."

At that, a girl I haven't really seen before comes over. Something about her looks familiar, but I can't place it.

"Oh, just wanted to say hello. I'm Dolores, and I'll probably be here next year," she says. "I came in to say goodbye to Nascar-" she gestures over towards where he's sitting, where a small crowd of teenagers has gathered- "and wanted to see who he was going up against."

"Oh. Well, okay then," Diamond says. "This is really awkward."

One of the Peacekeepers who's still in the room tells us "You have one minute of Goodbyes remaining. Be sure to finish up whatever you need to."

In an even more bizarre turn of events, two more people suddenly enter the room. I recognize these two right away- they're the victors who will be our mentors. My mentor, Frosting, is practically vibrating in place, she has so much repressed energy, while Nascar's mentor, Polaris, is balancing a large tray of something on one hand while clutching a stack of papers with the other. As I look closer, I realize the tray is covered with vibrantly colored cupcakes.

"Sorry to interrupt you guys, but before you go, does anyone want a cupcake? Frosting made them. They taste good, but _all_ of us victors are sick of eating them by now, including me."

Nobody makes a move at first. They just return to their conversations, which makes sense.

"Goodbye, Clara," says Diamond.

"Please don't die, Clara," says Myland.

"Good luck to both of you," Dolores practically shouts. After that, the Peacekeepers start escorting everyone out of the room. However, the cupcakes manage to attract everyone's attention again, and before we know it, there's only three of them left and the room is mostly empty again.

Frosting says, "Eh, why not?" and proceeds to pop one of the remaining three into her mouth. Nascar gets up, takes the tray, and eats one of the last two.

On the way to the waiting train, Nascar carries the tray with him, one lonely cupcake still waiting on top. Nascar is gesturing towards me, and I take that as a sign that I should probably eat it.

Without thinking, I unwrap the thing and take a bite out of it. The burst of sugar is incredible. Frosting clearly knows how to make good cupcakes, although I'm not too surprised. Her parents owned a cupcake shop back when she volunteered into the games, so she had to have some idea of how the thing was made. However, who I got it from makes me remember something…

"Hey," I say to Nascar.

"What?"

"I've been away from my parents for less than an hour and I've essentially taken candy from a stranger. Is it just me, or is that really ironic?"

He says nothing. I take that as a sign to shut up and focus on the impending Games.

After all, he has to die if I'm going to win this thing.

* * *

 **Aryion Hylus, District Seven Male**

* * *

I'm perched on the couch, wondering if this will be the smartest or stupidest decision I've ever made.

On one hand, I'm going to the Capitol for a week. I'll be made to feel like I matter. Everyone's going to see that I actually mean something. And I'll get to be on television, even if it might not be for long.

To counter that, I'm probably going to die. But don't we all die at some point? My death will just be earlier than normal.

That isn't stopping Gerald for telling me what a moron I am. Whatever. I've been yelled at enough times that I can sort of zone out while it's happening. It's become a lifesaver these past few months.

Once he's all yelled out, he manages to walk out without exploding, a positive if I've ever seen one. I'm not expecting anyone else to come, but it turns out that the door is wider than I thought, meaning a couple of people have sprung for rolling Fletcher's cot into the room.

His first words are "Aryion, what were you thinking? Do you have a death wish or something?"

"Not really. I just want to get out of here, and this seems like my ticket to do that."

"Dude, seriously. Do you have some sort of mental disorder that I've just never noticed? Who the hell volunteers into a death match like the Hunger Games for no reason?"

"Apparently, I do," I reply.

"Ugh. That's one of the things I never got about you," he says. "You don't exactly seem to have a reason for doing a lot of things! Seriously, though: why?"

"Fletcher, please. I've been bounced between orphanages for three years at this point. Dad's still dead. I have no idea where Mom is at this point, but even if I didn't; she couldn't take care of me. I broke your arm, and I got snapped at. Honestly, what the heck do I have to live for at this point?"

He points to himself, getting me to shrug. "Okay, then. I guess there's _one_ reason I could have stayed. But there were quite a few more telling me to go. Sorry, dude."

Fletcher goes quiet. Then, without a word, he heads out the door, closing it behind him.

Alexa, my District partner, doesn't have any friends here either, meaning the place is empty, even though we still have five minutes left to talk to whoever we need to. I'm essentially alone again, just like I usually am.

A Peacekeeper sticks his head in the door. "Is anyone else coming? If not, we can head out," he says.

I just nod. I'm ready to see the Capitol.

"I don't think anyone else is coming," Alexa says. "I'm fine with that, to be honest."

"Works for me," the Peacekeeper says as he begins to usher us out of the room and towards the train. Towards the Capitol.

If this is where I'm going to spend my last days, I honestly don't mind.

* * *

 **Rhaemyr North, District Three Male**

* * *

During the "family only" section of goodbyes, my side of the room is empty.

Even though I've been practically raised with my guild, they're still not actual family members, and thus, will have to wait for the second half in order to get in. So for now, I'm sitting on one side of the couch, while my District Partner- Sotia, I think- is saying goodbye to her family.

I don't exactly take notes, but I still realize that she's keeping a remarkably straight face. It's like this is a normal day for her. Her siblings, two girls whose ages are probably in the single digits, don't agree. Both are crying hard, while Sotia keeps brushing them off and telling them that she'll be fine and that there's nothing to worry about.

I'm not sure if she's lying through her teeth or hiding a skill I don't know about, but either way, I should probably watch my back around her before the arena.

Eventually, her sisters are all cried out and wander out of the room, while her father stays a little longer and says a few more things. After a brief conversation, ending with "Please come back, I can't lose another family member," he goes to sit down on a chair in the far corner of the room for a few minutes.

Finally, finally, _finally,_ they allow the rest of the guild in to talk to me. Even Frenzy managed to make the trip. Hopefully there's no cameras in the room, but we have to be careful with what we say so that they're not locked up, if and when I ever see them again.

Matrix speaks first. "So, that's your name. Never thought I'd hear it."

"Ditto. I also never thought I'd be Reaped, but look where that got me."

A couple of them laugh, but it sounds forced. I don't blame them.

Frenzy goes next. "Well, I guess this had a pretty good shot at happening eventually. We had about the same chance of it being me sitting on the couch and you standing up saying goodbye. Not much we can do."

"You guys got any advice for me before they shoo you all out of here?"

Frenzy cracks a rare smile. "Not much. Just do what you're best at, and you'll probably be fine. Until the end, at least. Who knows? Everyone who enters has a shot."

"Some less than others," I say, and then immediately regret. The last thing I need is to drag down the mood when we're already pretty black on the spectrum of emotions.

Discord, of all people, says one last thing. "For all we know, the Careers could use someone like you. Try to get on their good side. They've taken outsiders in before."

"I can definitely do that."

Stryker finally says something. "If you guys are done, would you mind leaving the two of us alone for one minute? I have a few things I want to tell him in private."

Everyone backs off, and exits the room. Even though they're probably listening from just beyond the doorway, this is about as private as we can get in a place like this.

She leans in close, probably so the cameras in here (if they exist) can't pick up what she says. "First off, if you win, your spot will still be open if you want to come back."

"Stryker, if I win, I won't _need_ my spot. Hell, none of you will! I've seen those houses in the Victor's Village before, there's more than enough room for all of us. We could be one weird, awkward family in there, and it would probably work."

She frowns for a second, but doesn't pursue the issue. "Well, okay then. Second, don't worry about leaving us behind. You'll be gone, but you won't be forgotten."

I smile. That's one of the main reasons I love being here: everyone here is genuinely a nice person, and we stick together, even when we're not in the same place.

"And one last thing."

She leans in so close that her lips are practically touching my face. I'm not sure whether to be flattered or creeped out.

"My name is Alice."

My jaw drops.

Stryker- or Alice- I'm not sure what I should call her anymore- steps away from me on that note. Just like usual, she vanishes without a trace.

Despite everything, I smile. Even in the worst of times, I can still trust her.

Unfortunately for me, the Games are not going to work the same way. There, it'll be every man for himself.

Let's just hope I can succeed at this, without the kids that raised me.

* * *

 **Catarina Lynn, District Five Female**

* * *

The room feels so packed, I almost can't breathe.

Mom, plus all six of my siblings, have crowded in here to say their goodbyes. I'm full-on crying now, not even bothering to try and hide it. I know this is probably getting filmed and broadcast to the nation later on, but screw them, I don't care.

Minnie just looks kind of confused, but everyone else is crying as well. They know this is it. I might not be the weakest tribute to ever be sent in, but I can't fight. And I can't take down any of the monsters that call themselves Careers, either. I've seen enough Games on television to know that.

"Catarina," Carter says, "It's going to be a lot tougher keeping things together back home without you. I can barely do it _with_ you! Why did this have to happen? _Why?_ "

"Because… oh, forget it, I have no idea," I respond. "And that means Myra's going to have to step up a little earlier than I would have liked. She turns ten this month, though: she can probably handle it."

Mom still looks exhausted, even though she was given the day off from work. "We'll be cheering you on the whole time," Mom says. "Don't give up, we'll be supporting you every step of the way."

Jake smiles, and then opens his hands, revealing his lifetime savings: a couple of coins and a piece of orange money that I'm pretty confident came from one of the board games at his friend's house. "I can send you the big gray thing!"

My crying begins to slow down a little, as does everyone else's. "Oh, you mean a sponsor parachute?" The gesture is nice, but I'm pretty confident that won't be enough to send me anything. At least he's optimistic.

"If we pool everything together, we might be able to send in something," Myra says. "Sure, probably not much, but at least it's better than not helping at all."

"We can count it up when we get home," Rush adds.

"Aw, you guys always do stuff like that for me," I say. I don't bother telling them that it's probably not going to mean anything, that the odds of me dying are astronomically high, that this will probably be the last time they see me in person, and not on some screen while the entire nation looks on.

They know that already. Adding more negative emotions to the mix is not going to help.

Squirrel moves close and hugs me, impressively tight for a six-year-old. "I'll miss you, Catarina."

The tears start falling fast. Great, now I'm crying again. And at this point, I'm not sure if I'll ever stop. I squeeze him back, saying, "I'll miss you too."

"We all will," Carter says.

After that, the Peacekeepers in the room usher them all out as sobbing wracks their bodies. The room becomes empty once again, and it feels like the weight of the world has just been dropped on my narrow shoulders. Even though the boy next to me has at least sixty pounds and five inches on me, he looks the exact same way.

"Ready to die?" The kid- I'm assuming this is Spark- says this with so much bitterness in his voice that I'm not sure if he meant that as a question or a statement.

"No," I say. "I'm not dying, I'm not dying, I'm not dying…"

"Saying it over and over again isn't helping. There's stuff we can do to help us get through this, but just saying crap repeatedly isn't it."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, picking up skills from the stations we're going to, bulking up a little, getting some allies…"

"All those sound great," I say. Only problem is we're probably going to have to wait until tomorrow to start most of it."

"Why don't we start a little early?"

Lucky for me, I'm not too shabby at picking up subtext when it's laid down. "Are you saying you want to ally with me?"

"I don't know yet, since we've been with each other for, like, three minutes," Spark says. "But why don't we try and stick together for the first day of training and see where that gets us?"

"No problems with that," I reply. I mean, why not? Having an ally is a pretty big deal, especially this early. And going in with someone I know might make this ordeal more bearable.

I try to push back the thought that he has to die if I'm going to live.

* * *

 **Lacey Loveless, District Eight Female**

* * *

The doors to the outside world have opened, and my parents- or at least the walking carcasses who used to be my parents- have been allowed in. Both have looks of utter terror and disbelief on their faces. Neither seem quite ready to let me go yet.

Dad only has a single word for me. "Why?"

Mom fares a little better, at least forming a coherent sentence. "Why did you do this to us, Lacey? Was it something we did?"

"Mom, Dad, I didn't do this to spite you," I say. "I did this for me. I can't live the way I've been living for the rest of my life."

They don't seem to understand. Mom at least has an idea of where I'm coming from, but Dad is utterly clueless. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I can't live and still feel nothing. If I don't feel anything, I might as well be a robot. And at least they can do some really cool tasks if they put their, well, _intelligence_ to it. I've always felt like I'm a human with all the fun sucked out of it. This is a chance to change that."

Mom's eyes bug out, and her hands clench into fists, turning crimson while the rest of her goes stark white. "You want to change that by getting yourself killed? How is that supposed to help?"

"I'm not getting killed. I'm going to be the one going home."

Dad's not impressed, although I don't blame him. "Sweetie, _everyone_ says that in their goodbyes. Saying it doesn't make it true."

"Saying it might not, but doing things to help definitely will," I say. "You might not have known this, but I've gotten pretty proficient with a knife in the past six months." When their mouths begin to hang open, I add, "I've been training in an alley whenever I had spare time. In terms of how ready everyone's going to be for the Games, I'm pretty well off."

Oh, dear. I'm not sure whether they're going to burst into tears or start screaming at me. I'm pretty confident that if I cut their faces symmetrically in half, you wouldn't be able to tell that the halves were ever connected.

"Lacey, why couldn't you tell us that? Then we could have talked you out of this," Mom says.

"Exactly. That's why I _didn't_ tell you. I'm not easy to talk out of things, but when you guys are at the helm…" I shudder for a second. "Yeah, let's just move on."

Mom and Dad have tears in their eyes now. The situation must be crushing them. Yet still, I feel hollow and empty.

"Please come home, Lacey. I don't know what we'll do when you're gone," Mom says before the Peacekeepers usher her and Dad out.

I silently hope that that's the end of it, but of course that can't happen. A few seconds later, I'm sharing the room with two other boys- presumably Romeo's friends- and a _very_ pissed Taffeta.

"Lacey. What the fuck? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK? Are you clinically insane and I just never noticed or something?

"Taffeta," I say back, trying to work past her glaring and venom, "You and I both know I'm already most of the way there. I'm sorry for not telling you about this earlier, the last time we met. I've been ready to do this for quite some time."

"Ready to do what? Commit suicide? Because that's basically what this is," Taffeta hisses. Her eyes narrow to slits, and she keeps inching her face closer and closer to mine like she's trying to possess me.

"Ready to be normal. I just want to be able to feel things like everyone else does. If this doesn't make me feel anything, nothing will."

Taffeta's not buying it. "Lacey, if you just wanted to feel something, you could have just told me that! I could have figured out something to do other than get you killed. Seriously, if you don't win, who the hell are you going to benefit by going into this mess? Because whoever they are, I don't see them."

As if to specifically defy her, the door swings open once more, and Taffeta is suddenly sharing the tight space with a smaller girl wearing a faded blue dress and a hair ribbon that probably used to be pink, but now is nothing more than a frayed, nearly white thing entangled in her dirty brown hair.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever you guys were doing," the girl interjects, "but I just wanted to say thank you."

Taffeta stares at the girl like she'd just told her that she was an escaped rebel trying to hide from the Peacekeepers in plain sight. "Why?"

"I'm Button Nishum. You know, the girl your friend- or sister- or whatever- saved. Meaning I actually get a chance at life. I don't know why you volunteered, but I'm supporting you for as long as I can."

She exits almost as quickly as she entered, leaving me with Taffeta again. "Ignore her. So you helped _one_ person out. What's that going to matter when you inevitably die?"

"Because I'm not going to die. I'm going to be home soon, and then we'll be back together again. You'll never have to worry about this again."

Taffeta stares at me, blank. "Lacey, if there's one thing I've learned from being friends with you for three years, it's that you were never afraid to tell secrets, since embarrassment seemed to be a foreign concept to you. But this? This is a pretty damn big secret you conveniently 'forgot' to tell me about."

"Taffeta, I-"

"Lacey, you might come home, but whether or not we'll still be friends when you get back is definitely something I'll need to think about."

Before I can say anything to try and defend myself, she leaves the room as well, leaving it empty except for Romeo's friends, who soon follow her lead. And then it's just us.

I sigh. In less than ten minutes, I lost the trust of the one person I thought had it. I should be bawling my eyes out at this point like some scared little girl. However, my mind is still blank. Still empty.

And something tells me that if I still can't feel anything after that, the chances are pretty high that I never will.

* * *

 **Vick Even, District Four Male**

* * *

Thankfully, the door is extra wide, so my mother can get wheeled in on some sort of cot to say goodbye.

If I wasn't able to see her one last time before I go out to try and save both her life and mine, I might have lost it, in front of a trained and probably deadly Career. And I really need to make a good first impression for her. If she's anything like her sister, I'll be dead in the first three minutes if I show any kind of weakness now.

"Vick, why?" These are the first words that come out of Mom's mouth.

"Honestly, I have a question, too: why not? I mean, look at the options. If I win the Games, I'll be able to save your life, and we'll be able to have at least a few more good years with each other. If I don't, I won't be able to save you, but that won't matter, since I'll be dead. And if the prognoses you've been getting are indicators, you'll be joining me soon enough. I just don't want to sit around and watch you slowly die, knowing there was something I could have done to help you."

"Vick, you're too young for this! You have a life ahead of you! Why would you throw it away just on the _chance_ that you'd be able to get me treated in the Capitol?"

"Mom, I'm sorry, but I've been living with you for seventeen years. You've done everything you could to help me when it mattered. You're the reason I learned how to swim, you're the reason I didn't drown in that kiddie pool when I was three, you're the reason that I got put in the hospital when I got that really bad case of the flu that could have killed me, hell, you're the reason I'm standing here in the first place! Why can't I do something to try and make up that deficit?"

"Because that deficit just isn't worth your life."

Those words echo around my head, bouncing off the sides and pounding themselves into my brain, over and over and over again. All of a sudden, I start second-guessing myself, as well as everything I've done that brought me up to this point. Is this really going to be worth it?

"Mom, I'm sorry you feel that way," I say, more quietly this time, "but there's nothing I can do to change it now."

Mom stares at me for a solid five second before the first tears begin to slip from her eyes. As they begin to wind down her face, she moves closer to me and squeezes me as tightly as possible. Which, even with all the horrible therapies she's had to suffer through, is still pretty tight.

"I'll see you soon, Vick," she says, as the medical staff who brought her in usher her back out, wheeling the cot back out the door before it closes behind them.

Then, I watch Sienna's family, for a time- her parents seem a combination of worried and determined, while her Victor sister shows nothing but pride and certainty of another victory. They're blocking my view of Sienna herself, so I have no idea what she's thinking right now, but I'm assuming she looks exactly like her sister.

Then, they depart, and the door swings open again to reveal Aqua, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Every step she takes looks like it hurts, and I'm pretty confident that she's so fragile a strong breeze could knock her down.

Her first words match my Mom's exactly. "Vick, why?"

"It's for Mom. If I win, she can get treated."

"But what about if you lose?"

"Then at least we'll see each other again soon."

Aqua's rate of crying accelerates even more. "Vick, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with myself if you don't get back. How could you do this to me and not tell me?"

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Aqua. I didn't have time to tell you beforehand, even though I wanted to. I hope you can forgive me."

It takes a few seconds, but she eventually says, "I can forgive, even if I won't forget. I'll be watching every step of the way, Vick. Please win for me so I can be normal again."

I smile. "I can handle that, Aqua."

"You better," she says before she leaves the room, leaving me and Sienna alone, except for a young woman a little older that Sienna, clearly wishing her luck.

However, in a surprise move, the door flies open one last time, and I'm suddenly face to face with a boy I've never seen before. He's definitely a Career Academy Trainee- at least four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, rippling with muscle. His curly red hair shoots out all over the place, and I'm pretty confident his eyes could cut me in half with their gaze, they're so bright.

I hear a gasp from across the room. When I turn to find the source, I realize it came from Sienna, who's sitting stock-still, not moving a muscle, while staring at him.

"I'm Ripple," he introduces himself. I'm confused for a few seconds more, but then I put together the dots.

"You were supposed to be her District Partner?"

"Yes, of course."

Great. Now I feel horrible for stealing this guy's spot for selfish, selfish reasons.

"And I wanted to say thank you, for beating me to the punch."

Sienna still hasn't moved. I'm pretty confident I haven't either, not in the last ten seconds, at least.

"Now, I don't come off as a coward for not volunteering: I'm just someone unlucky. In all honesty, the Games terrified me. I only started because I was homeless at the time and the Career Academy had dorms to sleep in if I signed up."

He continues on, not breaking for a second. "I trained and trained and trained, mostly because there was nothing better to do there. I got really good, even though I wasn't trying to be. I never wanted to be the best tribute, and get sent out there to almost certainly die. But now, I don't have to live with all the guilt that comes with letting our District down like that."

He turns to Sienna. "Sorry for not telling you about all that earlier. Knowing your sister, though, you'll probably be fine. Good luck to the both of you. I hope you make our District proud once again!" On that note, he exits, leaving the room empty except for the shell-shocked pair of us, and the young lady talking to Sienna earlier.

Now I feel a little better about getting the spot.

I just hope I'll feel the same way in a week, once I'm standing on my pedestal, ready to fight to the death or die trying.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Sorry if the focus was a little uneven. I just found it easier to fill space for some tributes than others.

-School just started up where I live, and college applications are coming soon, meaning from this point for the next few months, updates are going to be _much_ slower. I'll write whenever I have free time, but I'm just not going to have a lot of it.

-Next chapter (whenever it comes out) will feature Galadia, Sienna, Zari, Alexa, Marius, and Maxxer (again, not necessarily in that order). I'll see you again, whenever that comes out.


	28. Train Rides: Speeding Towards the Future

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Speeding Towards the Future**

* * *

 **Reaping Day, Post-Reapings**

* * *

 **Alexa Dobio, District Seven Female**

* * *

I'm still in shock.

There were only a few slips in the bowl. Those slips were part of thousands among thousands. No rebellious background (unless you count the stuff I did when I still lived with my parents). No reason for anyone in power to hate me. But that doesn't mean jack anymore, because I'm still on a train bound for the Capitol, about to become another pawn in their stupid little game.

The train car I'm sitting in right now is empty, so there isn't much to do except stare out the window, wondering exactly how screwed I am.

However, that changes pretty quickly, when my mentors, along with Aaron or Arnold or _whatever_ this kid's name is, enter the car.

I recognize both of the mentors right away. The taller one, Ash, spent his Games in a freezing tundra well before I was born. I don't know much about that year because I've never bothered to do that much research, but the one thing that everyone knows about his Games is that he won because of how he put the ice skates he'd gotten from the Cornucopia to many, _many_ different uses.

The other one is Mahogany, no doubt. Sure, she has bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, her hair is messy and hanging down to her waist (unlike the short, neat ponytail I'd remembered her with), her hands are twitching constantly and her eyes are red from crying, but it's still Mahogany. No doubt about that.

Seeing that I know her, you'd think the first question that comes to mind would be "How's everything going, Mahogany?" Or maybe "How's Sepia doing?" It could even be "How's your life been for the past five years?"

Instead, the first thing I say to her is "Doesn't Johanna usually mentor?"

I clamp my hand over my mouth immediately afterwards, but the damage has already been done.

She fixes her cold, tired gaze on me, and lets loose an emotionless laugh. "Yeah, usually she takes care of it. I just heard through the grapevine that she needed a break after what happened last year."

At first, I don't get what she's saying, but then it comes up, and I stifle the urge to start crying at my rapidly approaching fate. "Johanna really got that angry over what happened?"

Mahogany's permanent frown almost shifts into a smile, but her mouth sags again as she starts telling the story. "I believe her exact words when it happened were, 'The freakin' bitch couldn't pound it through her thick skull that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, keeping a damn AIR HORN in her bag for three days MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN A GOOD IDEA?'"

I'll admit, her Johanna impression is pretty good. "I thought she only did that to tributes before they entered the arena."

"Honestly, that's what happens most of the time. She hates the Games just as much as most of us victors do and just needed a way to vent. We all have our own ways. Apparently, hers is screaming."

Ash staggers over towards Mahogany, each footstep unsteady and his eyes unfocused. "You know I can tell Johanna what you just said about her," he says, each word slurring and piling on top of the others.

Mahogany gives Ash another one of her almost-smiles. "Ash, I've lived next door to Johanna for five years. I'm pretty confident I can handle her yelling at me for fifteen minutes."

With a grunt of displeasure, Ash wanders back to the other end of the cart, nearly falling flat on his face on the way there. It's common knowledge that he turned into a drunk after his Games, and, similar to Haymitch from Twelve, he doesn't even bother trying to keep it a secret. So much so that it's easier to find him with a bottle of some kind of alcohol than without.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Mahogany leans close to me and begins whispering in my ear. "Please don't mention his drinking in front of him. It's a sour spot between us. He still resents me because I haven't had to take up a vice yet."

"But-"

"But nothing. He had to kill five people to get to where he is now. I made a grand total of one kill, and it wasn't even intentional." She's right on that aspect, her only kill came during the Bloodbath, where she pushed a smaller outlier out of the way so she could escape faster. Unfortunately for the outlier, there was a Career right there.

"The point is, I have nightmares at least four times a week and I'm one of the _luckier_ victors. So you have no idea what's he's going through right now." She pulls away.

"So, is there a way to figure that out?"

Mahogany stares right into my eyes. "Girl, if you do, I'll have a new neighbor."

Well, there's no way to do it but to do it. If I can figure out how to win, I'll be living across the street from Mahogany, and things will be just like old times.

Sure, I'll be scarred (in more ways than one) for the rest of my life, but that's the baggage that comes with being a victor, right?

* * *

 **Zari Morelett, District Six Female**

* * *

Jet, Remi's mentor, is currently on morphling, and has such a large dose in his system that he can't even talk.

Right now, he's just lying on the couch that takes up the far wall of this train car, occasionally laughing or crying for no particular reason, as if there's some heart-wrenching television program on that only he can see. Even our escort has fled the room, not wanting to be stuck here with only two kids and a mentally-elsewhere mentor to talk to.

Only three District Six victors are still alive, and all of them are addicted to morphling, with one exception. My mentor, Luna, somehow managed to resist the temptation of morphling and became the first victor from Six to do so. She became the one, single, shining example of the victor who avoided the evils of the drug.

 _She's_ currently passed out in her small bedroom, sleeping off the massive hangover she got last night.

 _And they wonder why District Six hasn't had any victors in, like, ever._

Remi isn't being very talkative right now, so I guess the best thing I can do is get something to eat. Jet isn't going to be of much use here, so the only option I have is going to be to wander the train and hope I find it at some point. It's an enclosed space, so there's only so many places it can be.

When I pass Remi, heading for the next car, he says the first words I've heard since the Justice Building. "Going to eat?"

"Yeah, I'm starving."

"Well, me too, so I'm coming with you. That OK?"

"You seriously think I have a problem with that?"

He doesn't respond, but steps ahead of me as we head for the next car.

We file silently through car after car after car, passing no one except for the occasional Avox. I know this isn't fair of me to say, since they didn't become that way by choice, but their missing tongues kind of creep me out. At one point, I hear snoring coming from a side room as we pass through a narrow corridor. Thankfully, I can figure out that that's Luna's bedroom.

After about five minutes of creeping along, we enter the dining car. And it's everything I've heard about from the news coverage of Games gone by, plus a little bit more.

The table is set for four, with silverware made with what looks like actual silver next to each plate. The glasses are actually, well, glass, not the plastic things we use at home because they don't break as easily. A vase crammed to bursting with colorful flowers takes up the center of the table, filling the room with an exotic scent. On one side of the flowers is a bowl filled with more fresh fruit than I've ever seen in one place in my life, to the other, a basket stuffed with a million different kinds of bread. Glossy, dark brown cabinets are nailed into the wall behind the table, presumably packed with even more goodies.

Remi begins to stare at me. "Uh, your mouth is hanging wide open, you might want to fix that."

I practically have to force my jaw back into place with my hands, it's so far down. Then, Remi starts talking again.

"What was with the weird hand-moving thing you were doing on the way to the stage?"

While that might be an insult, I decide not to take it that way. "Oh, that was sign language. One of my friends is deaf, so I was signing to her that I'd be fine. She made sure that was what it meant when they said their goodbyes." Without realizing it, I've started crying. As tears drip down my face and disappear somewhere in the expensive carpet covering the floor, it finally hits me that I'll never see them again.

"Relax, girl. Please don't get all weepy on me," Remi says. "That stuff catches, fast."

But I don't stop. I just can't. Sure enough, he's sobbing along with me in less than a minute.

I hear the door creak open, and Luna steps into the room, still looking hungover. Her deep brown eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, her black hair is greasy and tangled, and every step she takes looks like it could be her last, she's so unsteady.

Once she sees us, however, she starts heading back the way she came. "You two want me to leave you alone for a few minutes?"

All we can do is nod. She listens to our pleas, backing away and quietly closing the door behind her.

At least our solitude is assured for now.

Even if nothing else is.

* * *

 **Marius Coin, District Nine Male**

* * *

"I never thought you two would be the first tributes I'd get," Miller says.

All the pictures of him that decorated the District for a while made him seem larger-than-life, a living testament that no one could be counted out in this sick Games. Even though I've seen enough of him in person to disprove that look, it's even more obvious here- all he is is a sixteen-year-old. However, the Games aren't going to change to become easier for us anytime soon.

Anisa, Toren's mentor, quietly sits in a far corner, adjusting the sound-cancelling headphones I've never seen her without. She hasn't said a word since we've gotten here, and I'm becoming increasingly unsure she ever will.

"So, you have any pointers for us?" This from Toren. "It might just be me, but I don't want to die."

Miller looks her in the eye, and says, "Yes, I do. First, watch my Games…"

Toren raises her eyebrows.

"...And second, _don't_ do anything I did."

Toren's eyebrows come back down. Sure, Miller did win his Games, but his performance wasn't exactly impressive. All he did was avoid the Careers (for the most part, anyway) and get really lucky in the finale. Chances are, that's not happening for the second time in a row.

Anisa, on the other end of the car, suddenly stands up, and says the first words I've heard from her. Unfortunately, those words are, "Toren, I'd like to share a few pointers with you. You mind coming with me for a few minutes?"

Toren nods, following Anisa out of the train car and quietly closing the door behind her, and then it's just Miller and I.

Okay, at least that gives me the opportunity to ask Miller _one_ thing…

"Miller, I don't know how to put this lightly: I have a massive crush on Toren. I'm assuming that's not working out, but should I bother telling her about it at this point?"

Miller laughs, an awkward, uncomfortable noise. "Yeah, crushing on your District partner does not go well. I should know, considering _I_ had one last year."

I hear a sudden thud. I think it's from my jaw hitting the floor. "Wait, what?"

"You're surprised, I'm pretty confident at least half of the boys in the room had a crush on her. And I'm pretty confident at least one girl had a crush on her, too."

"Did it work? Like, at all?"

He laughs again, the noise even stranger and more alien than before. "Hell, no. She kept calling me Flour Boy for some reason- she either didn't remember my name or just didn't care. Also, if my memory is correct, one of the Careers tried to flirt with her to get under her skin, but that didn't work either. Eventually, she told him to back off, in no uncertain terms."

"Well, okay then." I know the Games is no time for romance, since only one of us is leaving. But who knows? Maybe we can just be allies.

Even if we're not head-over-heels in love for each other, being allies puts us in a far better position than being alone.

I've had enough of being alone.

* * *

 **Galadia Devinson, District Two Female**

* * *

It's been stony silence between the five of us so far.

Even Champagne, who seemed like a chatty person when I first saw her, has kept her mouth firmly shut. Cassidy (my mentor) is glaring at me, as if she's daring me to step out of line in some way, while Crag (Godric's mentor) is following suit. So far, they're ignoring Godric, which I don't mind (even if it lowers the chances of our District emerging victorious).

Finally, Cassidy breaks the silence. "What happened to Iridium?"

I try to sound normal while responding. "Nothing. I just beat her to the punch. I'm ready to win for our District."

Cassidy shows remarkable restraint upon hearing that. She makes it a full _five seconds_ before she explodes, which is pretty rare for her, based on the few times I've seen her outside her house. "Really? If you were ready, you would have been freaking PICKED FOR THE VOLUNTEER SLOT! WHAT THE HECK MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN HER?!"

Ooh, an easy one. "Iridium might be really strong, but she has the brainpower of a rock. And the personality to match. You seriously think a big, dumb moron has a better shot than I do?"

"THAT BIG, DUMB MORON WAS THE BEST FIGHTER I'VE SEEN IN THE LAST DECADE! AND NOW SHE CAN'T BRING GLORY TO OUR DISTRICT BECAUSE YOU WERE A NUMBSKULL WHO THOUGHT YOU COULD WIN THE GAMES ANYWAY!"

Honestly, I've tuned her out by now. "Uh, you might want to look at your face. There's a vein in your forehead that looks like it's going to rupture any second."

"AND I SHOULD CARE, WHY?"

Cassidy's screaming has significantly lowered in volume, which is a good sign, because that means she's running out of steam. I look around the room, trying to see how everyone else is reacting to this, but Crag, Godric, and Champagne have all left the room. Hopefully they got far enough away from Cassidy that they couldn't hear her, or at least found ear plugs.

"You should care because, sorry if you take this the wrong way, but you're _really_ hard to take seriously when you look like that. You remind me of the villain of a stupid cartoon I watched when I was little."

Cassidy turns to face the ceiling of the car. "I DOUBT ANYONE'S LISTENING UP THERE, BUT IF THEY ARE, I COULD USE SOME DAMN HELP," she shouts. Then, she slumps over the table, finally appearing to have yelled herself out.

"I've literally known you for less than thirty minutes, and I already hate you," she says. "That's not a good thing, considering we're going to be stuck together for the next week."

"Well, the feeling is mutual, so something tells me this will be a long week for both of us," I reply. "At least it's nice to know that early."

"If your goal is to irritate the other tributes into submission, you're already well on your way," she adds. "You better hope your District partner likes you, otherwise I could see the other Careers kicking your sorry ass to the curb." With that, she begins to walk out.

"Unlikely," I sneak in right before she slams the door in my face, leaving me alone.

Whatever. I'm not changing who I am just to fit in with a bunch of people I've never met. I have a good shot at hating them, anyway, meaning I won't _want_ to stick with them. If I have to go it alone, I'm pretty confident I'll still be fine.

It's worked for the first seventeen years of my life, why would it stop doing so now?

* * *

 **Maxxer "Max" Bent, District Twelve Male**

* * *

I'm not sure if I'm on my fourth or fifth helping of food at this point, but I don't really care.

Chances are, I've already eaten too much and am perilously close to throwing up. Back home, that kind of thing would be a disaster, since filling meals were few and far between. However, here, there's always access to more of everything I desire.

The thoughts swirling through my head make me feel even more nauseous than I already am. Half our District is starving, and just because I happen to be going to the Capitol (even if my stay is likely to be brief) I have way more food than I could ever eat at my fingertips.

But even worse was the Goodbyes. Everyone was crying, and I couldn't help but follow suit. What made me feel hopeless and stupid was Poole pulling me close and whispering, "You know I could have volunteered for you, right?"

Now I feel even worse than usual.

Fox isn't at the table, which is a relief. She initially refused a shower, but eventually caved after Ribbon made a sarcastic comment about her smelling worse than the rest of her District put together.

Sure, she caved _after_ making an attempt to tackle Ribbon while calling her several names I don't wish to repeat, but it's the results that count, right?

My mentor, the still-drunk-and-now-losing-his-marbles Haymitch, wobbles slightly at the table, not saying anything, not moving, save for some short, shallow breaths. There's a place of food in front of him, but it's just as full as when he first got it.

Fox's mentor, Corinne, glares at Haymitch while trying to make a dent in her own food. Eventually, she gives up, standing up and taking her plate with her.

I decide that maybe I should wait until breakfast to gorge myself any more, and ask, "What should I do with my plate?"

Corinne grunts. "Just scrape it off and put it by the sink. It'll go in the dishwasher later."

"I assume that's something that cleans dishes automatically?"

"Yes, of course. Smart boy," she says, a little edge in her voice.

All of a sudden, the hairs on my left arm stand on end. Then, a prickly, buzzing noise erupts from the bathroom, immediately followed by a rough, painful "OWWW!"

A few seconds after that, Fox staggers out of the bathroom, dripping wet and _very_ naked. Her hands are making a feeble attempt to cover her private areas, but I force myself to look away anyways. I don't need to add an impromptu sex-education class to the list of freaky things that have happened to me today.

"Okay," she says, "I thought you were supposed to touch that weird metal box to dry your hair. All it did was freaking zap me! What gives?"

Corinne gives her a look. "Girl, did you not see the gigantic "ELECTROCUTION HAZARD" sticker I put on it? There's a reason I put towels in one of the open drawers, you know!"

"Wait, that sticker _meant_ something? All I saw were squiggles, they didn't even look like letters. And I also have no idea what 'ELECTROCUTION HAZARD' means."

Okay. _What?_

I hope she's joking. I _really_ hope she's joking.

Corinne gives her one of the biggest fake smiles I've ever seen before she starts talking again. "Well, a hazard is a bad thing. And electrocution-" she pauses for a brief second for extra effect- "is what just happened to you!"

Fox doesn't lose the cold look in her eyes, but she seems to be slightly less crazy than usual right now. "Thanks for the tip. Now I need to go find a towel and not come out looking like _this_ again."

She disappears back into the bathroom, and the second time she comes out, she does so with a towel. "Where should I leave this when I'm done?"

"Just hang it on one of the hooks, we can toss it into the laundromat in the basement later." At that, she ducks inside the bathroom again.

I'm starting to get a little confused about something else. "Sorry if this sounds insensitive, but what happened to the Avoxes I saw for the earlier Games?"

"I specifically asked for a train without any. One, they creep me out, and two, I survived a Games where the Gamemakers were specifically trying to kill me and the rest of my District Twelve allies. I can do my own damn cleaning."

Well, that settles that. I already knew Corinne had a bitter, sardonic attitude towards almost everything, but finally seeing her outside of the very rare speech she's given the District makes this the icing on the cake.

Fox comes out of the bathroom for the third time, thankfully with clothes on this time. She looks much cleaner, but no less insane. "Now I don't look ridiculous, at least."

"Good for you," Corrine says. "Now, you two want any help so you have a shot at, you know, not dying?"

"Sure," Fox says. However, as she says it, she begins to stare at me. Really oddly. With this weird smile on her face. I'm starting to think if she's wondering whether I'll taste better with tomato sauce.

So, my mentor is a drunk, Fox's mentor is… strange, and Fox herself may or may not be a complete psycho.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

* * *

 **Sienna Starboard, District Four Female**

* * *

I've been feeling queasy for the last few hours, and I don't think it has anything to do with what I ate for dinner last night.

Vick hasn't said a word to me since we boarded the train heading for the Capitol. I'm not sure whether or not he wants to join the Careers (despite not being the one chosen), but either way, it won't be the same as if I had Ripple on my side.

So, we _both_ were terrified of the incoming Games. Considering how confident and cocky he always seemed to be in training, that was a pretty big shock. And now I really wish we were District partners, because at least we knew each other enough that we could pump each other up.

However, I've never seen Vick before in my life, so that's not going to work.

Sirena comes into my room, holding a hot cup of black coffee. "Sienna, if you want breakfast, I'd eat it now. We'll arrive at the Capitol in less than an hour."

My mind wants to skip breakfast and try to compose myself, but my queasiness is overridden by my growling stomach, which seems to have become a beast of its own. So, instead of just sitting on my bed for the next hour until it's time to leave, I throw on the clothes I wore yesterday and head to the dining car.

When I arrive, everyone else is there: Sirena, Vick, Turquoise (our escort) and Mako (Vick's mentor). Everyone except Sirena is attacking their platters, while Sirena merely leans against the wall, taking tentative sips of her coffee. She's already gone ahead and set up a plate of food for me- scrambled eggs with fish, what appears to be orange slices in a heavy syrup, thin strips of bacon, two rolls with butter, and a cup of the same coffee she's been drinking.

As the others finish, I silently eat it all, even as chattering continues on around me. When I slurp down the syrup the orange slices were stored in, the behemoth of a mountain range Sirena told me about yesterday appears in the distance.

"So, how do you two plan to introduce yourselves to the Capitol?" Mako steps up to the plate first.

For a few seconds, both of us have blank expressions on our faces, and then Vick speaks up. "Tough and confident. I think I'm big enough to play the part."

I turn to Sirena. "I'm assuming that's what you did?"

She nods. "Of course."

"Well, that's what I'm doing, then," I reply. However, as I say that, my stomach begins to turn again, really badly. I hope I'll be able to keep my last two meals down when I walk in front of the Capitolites for the first time, because last I checked, throwing up on them doesn't exactly make them hurry to sponsor you.

Mako smiles. "I like the two of you already, and I've barely met you. Although, Sirena did teach me a lot about Sienna before she won," he says.

"Well, I bet you'll learn a lot more about her when she gets back here," Sirena responds.

Vick blanches, and I don't fare much better. I manage to keep myself from grimacing due to the wave of nausea, but that doesn't stop everything in my stomach from sloshing around like there's a water park inside it.

We hit the mountain range, and everything outside the train car changes to pitch black. Even though the car is brightly lit with a vast expanse of fancy light fixtures, everything seems dimmer and darker without the sunlight streaming in from outside. Instead of being vibrant and full of life, everything's shadowy and a stark contrast to the shades they were before.

Just as quickly, though, we emerge into brightness. And the Capitol gets showcased in all of its glory.

I mean, I've seen it in bits and pieces on the television, especially during Sirena's Games. However, there's something about the sheer size of the place that the small screen doesn't catch. The towering buildings that stab at the sky with their pointed tops. The neon signs, advertising anything and everything that you can imagine. Even at street level, the place is massive, and filled to bursting with the oddly-dressed, neon-colored Capitolites going about their daily lives, although many of them stop and stare as our train bullets past.

As we begin to slow down, Sirena moves closer to me, and whispers one last piece of advice into my ear. "You shouldn't worry about this too much, since I'll be with you, but the Capitol paparazzi are vicious. Don't try to move in any direction other than straight for the building, and never stop moving. I had to learn that the hard way when I came here. I don't want you reliving that same experience."

Trying to form some kind of bond with my District partner, I immediately tell him, "Apparently, we should just move straight forward to the building because of how insane the Capitolites are."

He doesn't respond verbally. However, he does give a nod of thanks, right before our train comes to a stop and the doors swing open to reveal a packed train station.

As I step off, I'm immediately swarmed. Sirena suffers this as well, and I get microphones jabbed at me from every direction as Sirena and Mako begin to push their way forward, clearing a path for Vick and I to follow in their wake. Some lady with rainbow hair and a unicorn tattooed on her forehead shrieks as Mako passes her. A man whose clothing is so dark he might as well be a living shadow tries to drag Sirena off into the crowd, but Sirena throws an elbow in his direction and he backs off. Hands grab at me from all sides, every leg seems out to trip me, and the innumerable faces in the crowd all scrutinize me with looks that range from amusement to pure lust.

It feels like forever, but we finally manage to break free from the crowd and pile into the unmarked van that will take us to the training facility. We manage to slam the door shut, despite the people trying to storm the thing, and then the van starts moving.

Sirena looks at me in the half-light coming in from the windows. "You ready for this?"

I smile at her. "Ready as I'll ever be."

However, my stomach starts to churn again right after I say that. I might tell her I'm ready, but I'm pretty confident that I'm not there yet.

Hopefully, when I meet my allies, they can help me get up to speed for this, because right now, I'm a hot mess of nerves and queasiness.

And what I am right now just isn't going to win these Games.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Yeah, you know what I said last chapter? It's still in play, I just started working on this chapter _way_ before finishing the last one. I started it around Alexa's introduction, when I started getting bored of writing nothing but tribute intros. Thus, it's out way earlier than expected.

-I know there's a big, fat elephant in the room right now. This is an AU, but I'm still going to need to explain _why_ the Games are still going after Katniss' year, plus Corinne's statement that the Gamemakers actively tried to kill her. Oh, and Corinne herself. I should get to that soon, but I might not be able to do it without launching you into a block of exposition. If that happens, sorry, but I need to get this data across so this universe makes sense.

-Hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next chapter will feature Nascar, Remi, Toren, Faolan, Thomiah, and Fox (yet again, not necessarily in that order).

-See you next chapter, whenever it comes out!


	29. Stylists: Painful Perfection

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Painful Perfection**

* * *

 **The Parade is Nigh!**

* * *

 **Faolan Drover, District Ten Male**

* * *

I had pretty high expectations for the building that housed us before we were sent into the Games.

I've seen it before, in pictures and on television, so I have an idea of what to expect: a tall, imposing building that's nearly impossible to escape but sure looks nice. I just hope the inside is as luxurious as others have made it seem, because then I'll at least get to enjoy the week before I get tossed into the Arena.

When the van driving us turns one final corner to approach the building, my suspicions are confirmed. The place still has the same white paint covering the exterior, bright and free of stains and ivy. There doesn't appear to be any windows- or at least any windows I can see, anyway. Even the security is intense: nearly a dozen Peacekeepers are standing guard at the entrance, a garage-like opening that leads to who knows where.

After the van extricates itself from the bumper-to-bumper traffic in the area, it screeches to a stop just short of the entrance. Several of the Peacekeepers peer inside the windows, presumably to make sure we're actually the tributes and not some imposters. Then, they step aside and let us pass, and the van inches forward.

I say inches, because as soon as we get through the entrance, the road takes a sharp dip, plunging us downward for about five seconds before we come to a stop in what looks to be a dimly lit parking lot with spaces marked for exactly twelve vehicles.

Once the van pulls into the space marked with a "10," it shuts off and the doors open, allowing all of us to spill out and get our bearings once more.

Artesia asks the obvious question. "Where do we go now?"

"The hallway to the left of the glass doors." Artesia's mentor, Kitty, has obviously been here before, having won the Games and all that, so if anyone knows their way around here, it's her.

"Just so you know, that hallway is a passage to the stylists' building-" Tractor, my mentor, makes a gesture with his arm as he says that- "the one to the right leads backstage for when we do interviews, and the doors lead into the basement of the building you'll be staying in."

I nod. So does Artesia. Kitty leads the way, followed closely by Tractor and Swan. We bring up the rear, entering the tightly enclosed space. The hall is badly lit and claustrophobic- I can barely see three inches in front of my face and I can feel the walls pressing into both shoulders, at least when I step to the side to get off one wall.

Finally, a light appears at the end of the tunnel. As I follow the others along, it gets brighter and brighter, until we round a corner- the first in the hallway- and emerge into an enormous building.

We've entered something that looks like any girl's dream. We only see this one room, but everything in said room is designed to make someone beautiful. A hundred shades of eye shadow and lipstick reside on a shelf, situated next to bottles of strange substances I've never seen back home alongside more common things, like the thin, watery shampoo that we only used once a month, save for a special occasion. Everywhere is lit up with dangling fixtures that hang far, far above our heads.

They also illuminate the people, and then things start getting strange. One of them has his hair dyed a deep blue and sculpted into a wave design like it's trying to break loose from his head. A second one has skin that's dyed hot pink and something red and sparkly implanted into both elbows. The final one passes me and takes a brief look, revealing that her face is marked with intricate designs and her eyes are modified to be a bright, luminous purple.

I manage to keep from gasping at the sight of it all, but Artesia fails in that regard. However, I'll never get used to how these people look, for as long as I live. Even if that might not be that long.

Someone who appears to be the head stylist walks up to Swan, who suddenly seems normal by comparison. He says a few hints to her before turning on his heel, and that leads Swan to tell us, "We're not here. You'll be going to the fifth floor. After that, you'll be separated and meet your personal stylists."

As if that was all she needed to do, Swan then walks ahead of us, while Tractor and Kitty follow behind as we start to walk.

For now, at least, this looks like it might be enjoyable. And I'll definitely look nice by the end of it.

Who knows? Everything here is a new experience for me.

Let's just hope my first experience with the Capitol is a pleasant one.

* * *

 **Toren Laris, District Nine Female**

* * *

I've always heard the rumors that the Capitol has too much of everything.

I usually dismissed them back home, thinking that we had too much of everything, and how nothing and no one would be able to top how excessive we were.

Well, that belief held up for less than five minutes, as soon as I entered the room I'll be "prepared" in. Based on the way they said it, I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to go out to the parade or be served as the main course to a thousand hungry Capitolites, but I digress.

I wait for a few minutes, collapsed in the most comfortable seat I've ever been on in my life. It feels so good that I'm nodding off when someone throws open the door and tells me, "Follow me to the bathroom. They're starting with some basic stuff first."

The two of us file through a narrow hall for about fifteen seconds before the man throws open another door, presumably the one to the bathroom. He struts in, and I wander along behind him.

As soon as I enter, I let out an involuntary gasp. They might call this place a bathroom, but it looks more like some kind of water treatment plant. A pool posing as a tub occupies the center of it all. Shelves are stacked high with washcloths, bars of soap, and strange cleaning products in brightly colored bottles. The floor is made of some kind of deep gray tile I've never seen before- or maybe it's just painted. Further to the side, a couple of stalls jut out of the wall- I'm guessing they're either toilets or showers- and look so out of place with the rest of the room that I'm not sure what to think about them.

The man who led me into the bathroom has disappeared somewhere- I don't even know how he could have gotten out of here without me noticing, since I can't see any other doors from here. However, I'm not left to wonder where he is for long- he quickly returns with three more stylists, luckily all women. (It might just be me, but I'd feel really uncomfortable bathing with a guy I've never met watching me and telling me what to do.)

"Toren," the man says, "These three are Ivory, Selene, and Strawberry, and they'll be your stylists for this event." He points to each one as they're mentioned, but they look so different I don't know how anyone could possibly confuse them.

"Hi," says Ivory.

"Hey there," says Selene.

"Nice to meet you," says Strawberry.

"I will see you again when we put you into the costume for the parade," the man says. Then, he exits the room, leaving me alone with my stylists.

"Okay, honey," Strawberry says, "We're going to run a bath to get you into a position where we can work on you. It might be a little uncomfortable at first, but wait until we tell you the process is done."

Now I'm really confused. "Position that you can work on me?"

"You need to be one hundred percent clean, or some of the things we use on the costumes might not work properly," Selene says. "Let's get everything set up."

They begin adding hot water to the pool pretending to be a bathtub, as well as some soap and a few bottles of things I don't recognize. After a few minutes of waiting, they tell me the water is hot enough that the "process" will work, but I'm hesitant to strip, even though I'm only being watched by other women. Putting my body on display is not exactly something I enjoy doing.

I try to keep it mostly sensible as I take everything off, but probably fail in that regard. Eventually, I'm in the gigantic tub, with only my head above the surface.

Then, I begin to feel an awkward pulling sensation all around my body. It becomes worse the longer I stay in, and I'm half tempted to jump out of the tub right now, nakedness be damned.

"Don't worry about the weird pulling feeling you're getting," Ivory says. "It comes from the stuff we dumped in with you. It's designed to remove all the dirt and grit from your pores."

Yeah, I'm sure it's doing that, but the chance that it's pulling off skin along with it is pretty high. I don't trust this Capitol technology.

After a few minutes, they tell me to get out so they can drain the tub. "We need to add some new stuff into it and do it again. There are other things we need to do with your skin, and if we did them all at once it'd be way too painful."

Inwardly, I groan, even if I remain expressionless on the outside.

How long is this going to take?

* * *

 **Remi Hamick, District Six Male**

* * *

I'm currently lying on a table in nothing but underwear, with three people circling me like vultures and looking for flaws.

It's been almost an hour since we started this eternal process, meaning that I've had to soak in several strange liquids, take some kind of bright purple pill (which is supposedly so I won't have to go to the bathroom while the parade is going on), and had to rinse my mouth with a nasty-tasting solution that turned my teeth so white they look artificial.

They've been doing this for a while, so I know what's going on at this point. Eventually, one of the three twenty-something men will notice something that isn't exactly the way they'd like it. Then, they all rush over to me so that they can fix it. Sometimes, it's painless (although usually, it hurts pretty bad), then they repeat that process.

I have no idea when (or even if, at this point) this is going to stop, but not only am I starting to get embarrassed from lying exposed to the world, I'm starting to get really cold. I'm not sure how Capitolites perceive temperature, but based on the fact that there's a frosty wind coming from a vent that gives me goosebumps and some of them are still complaining that it's too hot, I'd say they have to be way more resistant to cold than I am.

I know this feels really awkward, but honestly, I don't mind it too much (nakedness aside, of course). If it means I look pretty for the Capitol so I can get some sponsor money when the Games roll around, I'm all for it.

After what feels like an eternity, the three of them finally stop circling me. "Okay, kid. We finished most of the process, but we're going to have to make a few more small changes to you before this costume is going to work."

All I can say is "Uh, okay then."

I start to immediately regret my choice when one of the three stylists leaves and comes back a few minutes later with the tallest pair of shoes I've ever seen.

"Am I supposed to be a stilt walker or something?"

One of the stylists, a man named Ronan who's dyed his hair snow-white so that he looks like some sort of mad scientist, shakes his head. "No, but-" he pauses for a second- "We just designed the costume for a much taller person. You're going to have to wear these if you don't want it to look ridiculous on you."

My first thought is, "Won't these shoes look even more ridiculous?" However, I bite down on my tongue, hard, and try to get the things on.

It's not easy, by any stretch of the imagination, but when I finally manage to put the things on and stagger to my feet, I can only take a few steps at a time before falling over. Staying upright on the chariot while wearing these things is probably going to be a nightmare.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to them," one of the stylists says. "They always do. Now, I'm going to get the head stylists to give you a final evaluation before we get you into your costume, and then you'll be good to go."

He proceeds to match briskly out of the room, while the other two stylists stay back in case something goes wrong (or something, anyway.)

That's not necessary, however, and the head stylist hurries in. He's an older man- or at least he looks older, I'm not sure if his hair is naturally gray or if he dyed it that color for some inexplicable reason- with the biggest glasses I've ever seen. He's not all the way to fat, but he definitely carries a few extra pounds around his hips, and his shirt is infused with so many colors it looks like he's wearing a patchwork quilt. The only visible body alteration I can see is that he's wearing a double set of earrings (one pair of plain silver ones, and one pair of those big dangly earrings that look like they hurt to put on).

"Hello. I'm Alexis, and I'll be your head stylist," the man in front of me says. He takes a few more seconds to scrutinize me before saying, "You've cleaned up enough. Let's go over what I think your final costume will be."

Well, at least it means that I'll get to put some clothes back on. I'm done exposing myself to the world.

If nothing else, it means I'll be ready to put on a show for the Capitolites of the nation soon enough.

* * *

 **Fox Angel, District Twelve Female**

* * *

I grit my teeth as hard as I can when they start ripping the hairs off of my leg.

This "beautification" process is stupid, the way I see it. First there was the foam that was supposed to clear my pores (which just made my eyes hurt and inflame the few zits I did have), then another, stronger foam to try and supplement the first one (which, while it did force out my pimples, also made my eyes start watering like crazy). Then they came with nail files, then some pointy things that were supposed to clean out my teeth, and now this. And I hurt. All over.

Seriously, what is it with Capitolites and pain?

"Don't worry, you're looking more normal by the second!" This comes from one of my tortur- er, stylists, a spindly lady with color-changing eyes and pants so tight I'm pretty confident I can see her bones.

I'm pretty confident I looked normal to begin with, and that crack really is not helping my mood. At this rate, I'm about five seconds away from jumping up and trying to bash her stupid face in.

I mean, what the hell can they do to me at this point? Kill me? They've already done that.

"Not much longer to go," says another one of my stylists, a man who looks like he barely graduated high school, but has bright purple hair that stands straight up, like it's trying to escape from his head, along with several vivid tattoos that probably spell something but look like gibberish to me.

However, I lose my focus as yet another patch of hair is ripped off my body. I somehow suppress the curse words, but a loud, vicious grunt takes its place, making the stylist who did the deed hop backward.

"Calm down," he says, a trace of fear in his voice. "This might take a while, but trust me, you'll look way better than you did fifteen minutes ago."

Except I don't care if I look better. All I want is for this to be over, but that's probably not happening, considering they already have another one of those sticky patches on my legs and are getting prepared to rip them off.

As this one gets torn off, feeling so sharp that I'm guessing it took some skin with it, I can't clamp my mouth shut anymore, letting loose a pretty realistic "OW!"

"Just stay quiet," the tattooed man says. "You're almost done with this part."

Thankfully, he's right. Three sharp yanks later, just as I'm ready to start screaming every expletive I know, they finally stop ripping the hair off my body.

"Okay, only a few more steps to go," says the lady with the tight pants. She pulls out some sort of electrical thing and talks into it, receiving some staticky response back, before jogging out of the room as fast as her pants allow. She's not gone for long, however; two minutes later she comes back with a clear cup full of bright blue liquid.

"Drink this," she says. "It's so you don't have to go to the bathroom during the parade."

I take the cup from her and stare for a few seconds at the unnaturally shiny liquid before taking a sip.

It takes all my willpower to not immediately spit it back out. Not only does it taste terrible- like someone mixed oil and mint leaves and dirt into one potent, slippery, disgusting mixture- it burns my throat so bad it feels like my insides are on fire. How the hell do they test these products and think that they're okay to use on people? Or do they test these horrible concoctions, period?

"Hurry up, we don't have all day," the tattooed man says. I lift the cup towards my lips, but I can't force myself to drink the rest. Screw having to go to the bathroom, I can hold it for half an hour. I'm not two.

"Okay, then," the man says. "If you won't drink it on your own, I'll help you out." With that, he takes a purposeful stride forward before tipping the cup hard, forcing the liquid into my mouth. Thankfully, I manage to spit it back out, coughing and hacking and gagging. I don't care what it takes, I'm not letting another drop of that crap inside my body.

All of a sudden, another young woman enters the room, dragging something huge covered in what looks like a couple of bedsheets. "Are they done? The parade's going to start soon."

"Close enough," the tattooed man hisses. He gives me a not-very-subtle shove in the back before he leaves, the lady with the tight pants skulking along behind him.

"Hello. I'm Sunny, and I'll be your head stylist, the woman introduces herself. "Let's get down to business, and then I can show you two your costumes."

Well, at least that means the nightmare is almost over.

Even if it means I'm probably going to be plunged into another as soon as I see the thing.

* * *

 **Thomiah Marshall, District Eleven Male**

* * *

I've been finished for half an hour already.

Once the stylists wrap things up with Odysea, our escort will lead us to the chariots, meaning we'll get to see all the other tributes in person for the first time. That makes me really nervous, to be honest- I might be a reasonable threat once we get dumped in the arena, but that's a big problem because it will paint a gigantic target on my back.

So, my best hope is to scout the other tributes and try to see who'll make decent allies. The best thing, statistically, I can do is go in with a team- each victor of the last nine Hunger Games formed an alliance of some sort, either before or during their time in the arena.

Odysea, based on the time we spent together on the train, is pretty high up on my list of potential allies, but that may change once I actually get to meet everyone else.

A few very boring minutes later, Odysea's head stylist finally comes out with some kind of device in her hands. Several seconds of her fiddling with the contraption later, Odysea gets wheeled out on some sort of motorized platform.

"You look great," Odysea says. My stylist, standing next to me, blushes quite noticeably.

"Thanks," I reply.

Odysea's stylist interrupts us both. "Okay. Now, we have to take you to the place where the parades start, which is in the lobby of the tribute buildings. Thomiah, you can walk if you'd like, but I'll have to wheel Odysea out there."

My stylist responds with "Okay, why?"

"I don't want her legs sticking out the bottom of the costume unless it's absolutely necessary. It would ruin the whole thing."

Before those two can start going at it, I respond with, "I can walk."

"Nice to know," Odysea's stylist says. "Let's get this show on the road."

Thankfully, the walk is only about fifteen minutes. However, with the near-total darkness combined with the eerie whirring coming from the machine transporting Odysea, fifteen minutes is about as much as I can stand. It feels like it's been forever by the time the light finally appears at the end of the tunnel.

Once it becomes clear that we're near the end, both stylists feel that it's the perfect time to start a speech about how we should conduct ourselves during the tribute parade. Even though I'm not actively trying to tune it out, it's hard for me to understand a thing they're saying when they keep trying to talk over each other.

"If someone waves at you, wave back…"

"Pay attention to people who are likely to give you sponsors…"

"If someone throws something at you, it's really bad form to drop it. Or not try to catch it at all…"

"Above all else, smile for the crowd…"

Then, we stumble (or, in Odysea's case, roll) into the lobby, and I suddenly get a headache that might be from my brain exploding.

Of course, every piece of technology here is some of the fanciest stuff I've ever seen or heard of. Sure, every piece of furniture looks fit for a king. Sure, there are people everywhere (some Avoxes, some not) farting around with cleaning supplies to make sure everything's perfect. But nothing prepared me for the sheer scale of the place. I guess I should have expected it once I saw the stylists' building, but it takes my breath away nonetheless.

My stylist runs to the wall and presses a button, and a few seconds later, what I thought was a window splits open to reveal a much smaller room, devoid of furniture. I start to question its existence until our stylists usher the two of us in.

"You might want to hold on to the railing," Odysea's stylist says. "This thing moves pretty fast."

I have no idea what that means, but I find it pretty quickly when the doors slide closed once more. A split second later, the floor begins to plummet out from under me. Not too fast, but just enough to startle me and make me wonder whether or not this thing is safe.

However, the feeling quickly passes, and the doors open up to reveal a windowless (but well-lit) area with simple light fixtures illuminating the gorgeous chariots we'll be traveling in.

As I follow the others over to the chariot, I force myself to swallow my nerves. Helena would be so much better at doing this than I'm going to be.

But that doesn't matter. This is the only chance I'll get to make a first impression on the Capitol, so it has to be a good one, at all costs.

* * *

 **Nascar Galluci, District One Male**

* * *

The parade will be underway very soon.

As part of District One, Clara and I will be in the very first chariot, the first thing that all the Capitolites get to see. Our costumes look incredible, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but there's a part of me that wonders whether it will be good enough. How high their standards are for us.

Clara hasn't said a thing since getting off the train, and I don't really blame her too much. Even now, with her hair cut into a neat ponytail and her face covered in black paint that's supposed to look like war paint, she just wants to keep to herself.

Thankfully, our costumes are easier ones to move around in than I expected. When our mentors tell us to climb onto the chariot via a couple of wooden stools acting as a staircase, we manage to do so without much difficulty.

Once we're up there, the first thing Clara does (oddly enough) is turn her head backwards.

"What are you doing?" I try to say this quietly, just in case the other Districts are listening in somehow.

She doesn't even turn to face me. "Scouting the competition," she says.

That's probably a good strategy, so I decide to do the same, especially since the elevated height of the chariot allows me to see all Eleven other Districts at once.

The boy from Two is somehow standing, despite the fact that his costume looks ridiculously heavy. His District partner's costume is lighter, but it's designed in such a way that she's forced into a crouch.

The pair from Three are steadfastly ignoring each other. The boy taps his foot over and over again while the girl stands perfectly still and rigid, looking like she'd fall over and shatter if someone pushed her.

The girl from Four, despite almost definitely being a Career, looks exhausted, leaning on one of her props for support. Her District partner follows her example, but his face shows far more alertness.

The pair from Five is one of the most mismatched duos I've ever seen. The boy is almost as big as I am, while the girl is maybe a third of his size. However, unlike most of the other pairs, these two appear to be having a conversation. I can't really figure out much else, because their faces are hidden from my view.

Both of the tributes from Six appear to be smiling, but I'm not sure if it's genuine. The boy has such a dreamy expression that I'm starting to wonder if they gave him a hit of morphling to keep him calm, and the girl keeps toying with her costume and tapping on the clear pane that covers her face.

I can't really compare the two from Seven, because their costumes obscure most of their features. All I can really see from here is that the boy's face is deadly serious.

The same phenomenon occurs when I see Eight. This is to an even worse extent, because their costume appears so clunky and difficult to move around in I honestly wonder how they got here on time.

The pair from Nine finally look like two normal tributes from what I can see. These two appear to be friends, because they're leaning close to each other to have a whispering conversation like a pair of five-year-olds. Every few seconds, one of them breaks out in laughter at something the other says.

Ten, Eleven, and Twelve are all really far away, meaning I can't tell that much about them from here. However, I can't see the girl from Eleven at all (meaning either her stylists held her up or she's so short she can hide behind her District partner), and I'm surprised to find that District Twelve's costumes actually have some color in them for once. I'm not sure if they're good costumes, but at least their stylists are trying to be original instead of the coal miners that District Twelve brings out year after year after year.

It takes quite a while, but everyone manages to get into their chariot unassisted (except for the girl from Eleven, whose costume didn't allow her to use her legs, meaning four Capitolites had to lift her into place). Everything is quiet for a minute, but then the doors leading out towards the city circle open, and a loud announcement echoes throughout the room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present your tributes for the Ninety-Fifth Hunger Games! Now let's give them a hand!"

At that, the chariots start to move forward, and I turn to Clara.

"You ready for this?"

Clara doesn't respond. I take that as my cue to turn and face front once more.

Then, the horses pulling our chariot step into the warm rays of the summer sun, and I'm welcomed to the Capitol with a resounding roar...

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-I am not dead, repeat, I am not dead! Just got sidetracked for a little while with college applications. Not helping was that this chapter wasn't exactly the most fun to write. However, the parade and post-parade chapters aren't going to be very long, and then we'll get to the training (which will be pretty fun, since everyone gets to interact with each other).

-I hope to have the next chapter out on the one-year anniversary of me uploading this fic (the 16th, if you don't know), especially since the parade will be a very short chapter (by my standards, anyway)

-The parade will be from an alternate POV. After that, there will be a post-parade but pre-training chapter to cover the last six POVs (Godric, Sotia, Spark, Romeo, Artesia, and Odysea, in case you weren't keeping track). Hopefully, I can bang those out one-two.

-See you next chapter, and here's to hoping it doesn't take as long as this one did!


	30. Tribute Parade: Ignorance is Bliss

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Ignorance is Bliss**

* * *

 **The Parade**

* * *

 **Janice Goldfinch, Capitol Citizen**

* * *

It's time for the big parade that happens once a year!

I can't wait for this. For the first time ever, we actually get to be right there, not just watching everything from a TV screen. This is going to be so awesome!

Daria and I are both trying to get a good view of the door (albeit, from separate positions), so we know when everything begins. It's really hard, though. So many big people standing in the way! Somethings, things like that can be so annoying.

As things turn out, we don't need a good view of the door! The noise coming from it is so loud that even without a good view of it, I can figure out that it's opening anyway.

The chariots are starting to pass by. I'm. So. Excited! And the crowd is so busy running towards the front to get a good view first that the section we're in is almost empty. Meaning, we can still get a pretty good view. Yay!

The chariot for District One is pulled by two pretty horses that both are all white. The two kids in them are both tall and serious. They're wearing these weird white clothes with what I think is supposed to be blood staining them. Of course, the costume is covered with so many sparkly gems I can hardly see it. The two of them wave for the crowd, but that's about as far as they get. Strangely, when they begin to pull away, the gems all start to turn red. I think that has something to do with there being more blood, but I'm not sure.

For District Two, two dark gray horses lead a chariot filled with another two serious kids. The boy- at least I think it's a boy due to his short hair- is wearing heavy metal armor and holding a sword. The girl (if it's a girl, anyway), however, is dressed as some kind of big bird and is crouched down next to her District partner. The boy waves for the crowd just like the first two kids did, but the girl isn't doing much except looking angry.

Why is she so upset? Her costume looks amazing!

Just like that, District Three moves along, their chariot being pulled by two light brown horses with patches over their eyes. Somehow, numbers and words appear to swirl around their chariot, switching from green to red and back again, even though I can't see what's making that happen. Both the boy and the girl are moving their fingers like crazy, but I'm not sure why until I see the glowing thing they appear to be using.

We might not have that much money, but we do have enough that I know what a keyboard looks like. What they're typing for, I have no clue. However, from this close, I can see that both of them are wearing these weird glasses that don't look like you can even see out of them, they're so shiny, along with black hoodies pulled tightly.

But then they move onward, and District Four takes their place. And their chariot looks awesome! Behind two reddish-brown horses, their chariot is covered in wave designs, and unless I'm mistaken it has a few inches of water in the bottom. Both the tall girl and the shorter boy are covered in green, well, something, and are holding shimmering tridents that are so bright I have to look away. They're mermaids. Not the most unique costume ever, but still pretty cool!

Then comes District Five. Both of them are wearing tuxedos covered in lightbulbs that flash and change color. They're waving like crazy to the crowd, but the crowd doesn't react back. That makes me sad. Maybe some candy would help. I take one of the leftover pieces of the bag Daddy bought us that neither Daria or I could finish and try to throw it to them. Somehow, I make a good throw, and the gigantic boy catches it in midair before smiling at me.

 _He. Did. Not. Just. Do! That!_

I feel dizzy and like I'm about to fall over, but if I did that, I know the results would not be good. Besides, District Six is coming up, anyway.

The District Six chariot is odd. They're both wearing some sort of bulky suit with a clear pane near their faces, making it hard for me to see them. And there's this number that keeps flashing above their heads, counting down from ten over and over and over again…

Oh, I get it! They're astronauts! Just like on that cartoon I used to watch when I was really young, where three friendly astronauts had to save twelve planets from destruction, teaching them the values of goodness and obedience along the way.

Right after I figure that out, the boy falls to his hands and knees for a split second before getting back up again. The few cheerers the chariot had suddenly stop, and everyone moves on to the next chariot.

District Seven, led by two horses that look much older than the ones we've seen so far, are wearing pretty classic costumes: the girl is dressed in a lumberjack outfit, complete with plaid clothing and a fake beard, and the boy is dressed as the tree, a blackened, gnarled thing that looks ready to tip over at any second. The girl clutches an ax that looks like it weighs as much as she does, and occasionally takes a swing at the tree. Not too hard, but enough that a dull thud comes out whenever she makes contact. The girl barely seems to acknowledge the crowd, and even if the boy did, I couldn't tell, since he doesn't have arms.

Then comes District Eight. And that's the first District I feel bad for.

Both of them appear to be stitched into some kind of enormous patchwork quilt, with only their legs and faces sticking out. The boy, a taller, skinny-looking kid with yellowing teeth, is all smiles, but the girl seems kind of… blank. She freaks me out a little! I'm not sure whether I want to stick around or run away screaming. Before I can figure that out, though, the girl topples with a screech, and the boy has to move over to try and help her up, at least as much as the costume will allow.

They probably can't catch it, since they can't use their arms, but I hope I can get some candy to them and make them feel a little better. My first few throws miss, but one piece lands right on the chariot, at the boy's feet. I watch it for as long as I can, but then District Nine passes by and I lose focus.

Both the boy and the girl are wearing brightly colored, tight-fitting clothing and crowns on their heads, and they both clutch at a glowing thing that I'm not sure how to take. Tall, brown stalks of what I think is fake wheat are clustered around them, making me even less sure of what they're even supposed to be.

Oh well. You can't win them all.

Then comes District Ten. And now I'm really confused. These costumes don't make any sense together! The boy wears some kind of oversized hat, along with a brown jacket and badly-ripped jeans. He even has a fake mustache and what appears to be a toy gun. (I know just enough to know that real guns aren't bright yellow.). However, the girl has flowers woven into her hair, along with a pretty flower-patterned dress I would love to be wearing. She even has a bunch of flowers in her hands. However, all that does is make me more confused as to what they're supposed to be.

There are only two chariots left to go, meaning I'm kind of sad when the chariot for District Eleven comes along, being led by two horses who look far older than I am. The boy is what I'm assuming is a farmer, complete with a hoe and a straw hat. However, I can't even see where the girl is supposed to be. The only other thing in their chariot is a bush with some greenish fruit or something on it that I don't recognize! What gives?

Then the bush moves a little. Before I flee screaming, the tiny part of my brain that actually has some sense in it makes me realize that that's probably what the girl is wearing, and I just can't see her.

District Twelve brings up the rear. Their chariot looks like it could fall apart at any second, and the horses don't look much better. Both of them actually stop in front of me for a few seconds, panting, before continuing to drag the load behind them. Both of the kids in the thing are dressed up like some kind of bird, I don't know which. At least, the boy is. Before I can even blink, the girl rips off her costume- the top part of it, at least- revealing her tiny form. Without hesitating for even a second, she hurls the thing out of the chariot.

Straight at me.

It hits me in the front, knocking me to the ground. The thing is much heavier than I expected, as I struggle to get to my feet and show it to Daddy, who isn't too far away.

However, some mean man snatches the thing away from me before I can take three steps! How rude!

And as it turns out, he's not the only one. A woman grabs the costume away from the man, then two more people join in, and in seconds, it's before a full-scale battle. I turn to try and get it back, but then come face to face with Daddy, who's clutching Daria's hand.

"Sweetie, it's time to go."

"But-"

"It's time to go."

He then takes my hand and begins to lead us away from the parade grounds, adults fighting and yelling and screaming behind us.

This parade, even if I didn't get the costume from that girl from Twelve, was awesome!

I can't wait for next year's parade.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Yeah, this came out quick. I might be a few minutes late to the one-year anniversary of this fic going online (or I might not) but I still banged this out pretty fast.

-Trying to replicate the innocence of a ten-year-old Capitolite was pretty hard- I had to rewrite it a few times to get the hang of it. (Special mention goes to DefoNotAFanGirl, who gave me the idea of all the Capitolite cartoons being propaganda. It should have been a logical step to take, but it went completely over my head last time.)

-Just to clarify things, here's a list of all the costumes that were NOT made clear in the chapter:  
 **-Nascar and Clara:** Roman gladiators.  
 **-Godric and Galadia:** Warrior and his hunting falcon.  
 **-Rhaemyr and Sotia:** Stereotypical computer hackers (like the kind you'd see in cheesy movies).  
 **-Marius and Toren:** Fairy king and queen. (Had to stretch that one a little)  
 **-Faolan and Artesia:** Old-timey outlaw and Demeter. (Yes, I know those don't go well together. It'll get chalked up as their stylists not communicating well)  
 **-Odysea:** An olive bush.  
 **-Maxxer and Fox:** Canaries.  
The others are easy enough to figure out if you actually read the chapter.

-One more pre-Training chapter, then we start to get into the good stuff.

-See you next chapter!


	31. Night: Food Comas and Awkward Questions

**Chapter Thirty: Food Comas and Awkward Questions**

* * *

 **Capitol Containment, Day One**

* * *

 **AUTHOR WARNING:**

 **Romeo's POV section contains content that may be upsetting to those who have/did have an eating disorder. If you feel uncomfortable around content like that, feel free to skip straight from Artesia's POV to Sotia's. However, it does contain some exposition that will be used later, so shoot me a PM if you just want the exposition.**

* * *

 **Spark Emmersen, District Five Male**

* * *

If I had to guess, I'd say we were probably one of the lowlights of the parade.

I mean, we were behind all three Career Districts and District Three, which is known for having pretty decent and varied costumes every year. I'm pretty confident that, in comparison to just about everyone else, we made a pretty awful first impression on these Capitolites.

Currently, we're waiting for the elevator to come back down so we can be shown to the place where we'll be living up until the Games actually start. However, it just took the tributes from Eleven and Twelve all the way up to the top two floors, so we might be here for a few minutes.

"Come on, you guys weren't _that_ bad." My mentor, a twentysomething man named Candle, is trying to make us feel a bit better. Kudos to him for trying, but it isn't really working.

Catarina's mentor, an aging woman named Jolt with deep wrinkles and hair that's more gray than brown, responds quickly. "Well, you couldn't have come off any worse than that gigantic mismatch from District Ten, or that girl from District Twelve taking off her costume halfway through and throwing it into the crowd."

"Or whatever the heck was going on with District Eight," Candle adds.

Finally, the beautiful metal-and-glass elevator lowers itself to the ground floor and opens its doors, leaving ample space for everyone to fit as they hit the buttons for their floor.

Based on the buttons that light up, I guess that everyone from Districts Three, Six, and Eight has gotten on with us. Part of that theory is proven when I wind up standing next to the petite girl from Eight, who has a blotchy bruise covering most of her face and bits of multicolored thread in her hair. She's snarling at something I don't know about, though, so I decide that it would be best if I leave her alone.

The elevator stops before our floor and opens up, letting two kids and three adults out on whatever floor this is (I'm guessing District Three's). I take the opportunity to move closer to the back of the elevator, where you can get a panoramic view of the lobby through the slick, clear glass. It's a view you can't get anywhere else.

Then, our turn comes. The elevator, after lurching upward again, slides open, leaving the five of us to extricate ourselves from the crowd of people who still remain.

It might just be that my perspective has shifted after getting used to the wildly decorated, over-the-top Capitol, but this hallway is rather plain. The carpet on the floor is a neutral shade of brown, hosting a pattern of lighter brown geometric shapes. The walls are painted in a similar shade. Aside from two plain white doors set in either wall, those are pretty devoid of decoration.

Ivy has decided to take it upon herself to point out what each door leads to. "That door at the end goes to where we'll be eating breakfast and dinner, the door closest to us now is where I go to sleep, the one right next to it is where all the Avoxes for this floor stay, and that means that last room is where you and your mentors will be sleeping. Come on, let me show you there!"

She practically skips over to the door before throwing it wide open for us, and we all wander into the room.

As soon as we get an eyeful of it, I gasp, and Catarina almost faints.

I'm not surprised that this room is bigger than Mel's apartment and possibly bigger than my house. There being several shiny, expensive-looking jewels placed in strategic areas to reflect brilliantly colored light isn't much of a surprise either. Even the breathtaking view visible from the far wall isn't too far from the norm for the Capitol- especially since the view is probably fake since I never saw any windows on the way in. What _does_ stun me, however, is the sheer height of the room. An ornate chandelier dangles far, far above my head, while other lights that I'm guessing are designed to look like the stars at nighttime add soft pricks of white to the lofty ceiling.

The only out-of-place touches the room appears to have are two sea-blue doors on the left side of the room and two painfully pink ones on the right. Between each of those pairs is a more fitting gray door, which starts to get me confused.

"The blue doors are the boys' bedrooms, and the pink doors are for the girls," Ivy says. "The doors in between lead to the bathrooms. Sorry about this, but the place went through a redesign recently, so it might be a little cramped."

I pick my bedroom at complete random from the two available and decide to take a quick peek. While there are many words I would use to describe the room, "cramped" isn't one of them. At this point, the gigantic bed heaped with enough pillows for a small army isn't out of place, and neither are the numerous paintings in elaborate frames that line the walls, the brightly shining, golden ceiling fixture, or the wooden floor made from what I assume is pretty expensive trees. If I were here on any other occasion, I'd be laughing like crazy. But not for this. Never for this.

I close the door and say, "It looks great."

"Nice to know," Ivy says. "Dinner's going to be at six-thirty. Clean up, explore your room, do whatever you need to do, just be in the dining room by then." With that, she exits into the hallway, and Candle and Jolt go to their own rooms.

"So, what do you think?" I'm trying to strike up a conversation with Catarina and not sound awkward, but I'm probably failing at that.

"It's much nicer than I'm used to," she says. "When you have six siblings, you kind of get used to everything being crowded and dirty, so this is a bit of a shock."

"So, about tomorrow…"

"Let me guess. You want us to stick together for the first day of training and see how it goes. Did I get pretty close?"

I nod. "Yeah, that's about it."

"I don't really have a problem with that. At the very least, the Careers might be less likely to target us if we stick together."

"Agreed," I respond.

Even with a potential ally at my side, tomorrow isn't going to be especially fun. Being trapped in a room to train with weapons we have no idea how to use, and vicious Careers scaring everyone (sometimes accidentally, sometimes not).

Catarina points at the clock on the wall. "It's six-fifteen. We probably should start cleaning up for dinner."

Dinner was never really a formal thing back home, but here, every meal is set, and in all honesty, I'm starving. I don't want to miss it.

Catarina and I go our separate ways, and chances are, each of us is wondering the same thing.

 _I wonder if I can trust this guy?_

* * *

 **Artesia Alexander, District Ten Female**

* * *

Once I got in the shower so I could clean up after the parade, I wished I never had to get out of it.

Even back when I still lived in a house, stuff like this was nonexistent, and even things such as warm baths were downright rare because it was so much of a hassle to set up. But here, you can change the water as much as you please, from the temperature of the water to the pressure it's spraying at to the direction it's coming from. And that's not even getting into the really fancy settings, like the one that dispenses a cleaning product of your choosing at the press of a button.

However, I don't want to be late for my first meal in the Capitol. Part of that is because I'm pretty confident that if I stayed here too much longer, I'd start absent-mindedly eating the shampoo I'm using. But the rest of it comes from the fact that I do _not_ want to tick off my mentor before the Games even start.

Slowly, grudgingly, I extract myself from the shower and step onto a tiny white rug. Or what _seemed_ to be one, anyway. Suddenly, a blast of hot wind hits me from all directions, feeling strange on my naked body. However, when it dies down a few seconds later, I'm completely dry.

I hustle to the closer, expecting that there'll probably be a few simple outfits in my size to choose from. But once again, the Capitol goes beyond my wildest dreams. Instead of just having some clothes and hangers, there's a holographic display right inside, and you can pick your ideal outfit in seconds just by entering the color and size you want.

After pulling on a plain black skirt and a blue shirt- the first clean clothes I've had in quite some time- I hustle down to the dining room. When I open the door, I find Faolan, Tractor, and Kitty all sitting at the elegant table, just tucking into the first course.

"So nice of you to finally join us," Kitty says.

"Sorry, kinda got distracted," I reply.

Tractor cuts in. "We all do. It's the Capitol, there's tons of insane crap we've never seen before. I was late for dinner on the first day too."

None of us say much more, instead electing to focus on the food. No surprise, it's far tastier than anything I've ever had in my life. Thin soup with oddly-shaped, doughy-tasting things floating in it starts us off, followed up by meatballs cooked with assorted greens, apple slices with some sweet brown concoction spread over them, hot, puffy rolls with butter and jam, and more greens, served cold and topped with a sour, watery liquid.

Swan comes in late and eats very little before disappearing again. I don't get why she can't have dinner with the rest of us, although having a beak instead of a mouth doesn't exactly make eating easy. Tractor and Kitty have enough restraint to take it slow, and Faolan somehow stays at a fast but manageable pace, but I have no such sense. If all the tributes had an eating contest, right here, right now, I probably could have won it.

I don't stop or even slow down until the first wave of nausea hits, and by then, it's probably too late. Thankfully, at this point, I only have a few bites of food left to go in my second full platter, so I decide, "screw it," and just finish it off.

By this point, I'm stuffed. And we haven't even gotten to dessert.

"Just take it easy with the dessert," Tractor says. "The last time this was served, one of the kids threw it all back up and didn't make it to the bathroom. You'll see why in a minute, but after that incident, it looked like someone had been murdered in here for a couple of days."

It's pretty obvious why once the dessert platter comes in. It's a towering cake covered in deep red frosting. When the Avoxes who brought the platter in cut a slice of the monstrous thing, the insides are shown to match.

"Red velvet cake," Kitty says. "It's really good."

Everyone takes a piece of the frosting-coated behemoth, and sure enough, the first bite confirms this to be one of the best things I've eaten. After a meal better than any others before it. If my stomach didn't feel like it would explode any second, I probably could have eaten the whole cake.

As it is, I stop at two slices, my face undoubtedly coated in bits of cake. Wanting to maintain some degree of politeness, I find a napkin and manage to wipe my mouth mostly clean. Faolan only eats half a slice, passing the other half to Tractor, who happily finishes it off.

However, now that the food is gone, it's time to get down to business.

"What are your strategies for Training Day?" Kitty is the one who winds up popping the question.

"Put this bulk to good use," says Faolan, while gesturing towards his admittedly well-built body. "Look for allies, get used to a weapon, and maybe reviewing some survival tactics."

"That's what they all say," replies Tractor. "Do you have any special skills? Any talents that might work in your favor?"

"Unless cow herding is a major part of this Games, no," he answers.

"Artesia, what about you?" Kitty adds in her own two cents.

I honestly haven't been thinking about too much. Maybe I just shut it out by instinct to try and keep myself came, but training starting tomorrow definitely scares me a little bit. "Probably stay under the radar for a while. I don't want to come off as a target."

"Not a bad plan," Kitty says, "but you need to know that there's a fine line between not being viewed as a threat and being seen as Bloodbath material. Too far on one side, you have the Careers to worry about, and too far to the other, everyone who's not a Career and wants to make an impression will beeline straight for you."

"Which means?"

"Show them that you're competent, but don't take it too far or try to show off. The gap between a four and a five is a lot bigger than the gap between a five and a six, if you know what I mean."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"However," she adds, "if you somehow find a talent inside the training room that's too good for you to hide, take it and run with it. Sure, it makes you a Career target, but suddenly every outlier in the room wants you for an ally. It's easier to avoid getting attacked if you're in a group."

"Hopefully, that works out," I respond. "I'd rather have a target on my back than be seen as having no chance whatsoever."

"Same," adds Faolan.

Tractor smiles. "I think you two are going to do great in training tomorrow. Everyone has a talent, you just have to find yours."

I smile back, even if the butterflies in my stomach (both from my nerves and the excessive amount of food I ate) feel like they're dogfighting inside my stomach, with how many backflips it's doing. Faolan appears to be doing the same thing, but I can't tell for certain whether his smile is genuine or not.

I guess I'll figure that out for sure tomorrow.

* * *

 **Romeo Brady, District Eight Male**

* * *

I'm currently in the bathroom, throwing up everything in my stomach.

I know I was supposed to take it slow with the Capitol food, considering I've never had anything that filling before. But the salad and chicken were so good, and the rolls with strawberry jam, and _especially_ those chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting- I must have eaten six of those…

This is the third time I've done this since I got here. And, sickeningly enough, I don't regret a second of it.

Once I stop heaving and my stomach stops spewing its contents, I manage to stagger to my feet, flush the mushy remainder of my dinner down the toilet, and clean my face before I go back to the dining room. Not because I want to eat anymore- I've digested enough of the meal that I still feel full- but just because everyone else is probably still there and finishing up dinner.

Less than a minute later, I stumble into the dining room, probably not looking my best. Sunset gives me a look like I suddenly grew another head, but Lacey doesn't seem to pay any attention. Neither does my mentor, Tassel, or Lacey's mentor, String. All three of them are too busy engaging in a whispering conversation that I can't make anything out of.

After I sit, it stops so suddenly you'd think I flipped a switch to shut them down or something.

"You feel full?" This from String.

All I can say at this point is "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good thing, too. Trust me, binging on food isn't going to do you any good if all you do is throw it back up. It's something I had to learn over time after I was starving the instant I got out of the Bloodbath." Tassel says that even if he knows that isn't really true. He was known during his time in the Capitol for having a perpetually empty stomach, that kept being emptied on its own because he would always overeat and throw it all back up. In the Games, whenever he found food, it was always gone within six hours.

However, he had the advantage of being an excellent fighter in an arena that gave Careers a severe disadvantage, so he could just be sponsored almost whatever he wanted. I don't have that luxury, because I can barely _hold_ a knife, let alone use it. Meaning, I should probably follow his advice.

"I hate to sound so pessimistic, but I'm just trying to enjoy my time here, because chances are I'm not winning. I can't fight at all, I have zero wilderness survival skills, and on top of that, I'm missing fingers."

"Just forget your weaknesses," says String. "Luckier victors have won the Games. I should know since I'm one of them, but remember the Third Quarter Quell? The girl who won did so despite the Gamemakers actively trying to kill her for ten days."

I was too young to be around for that Games, but everyone's been told the story now and again, and it was a huge rebel rallying point.

The year before the Third Quarter Quell, the last two tributes, both from District Twelve, threatened to poison each other with berries if they weren't both allowed out of the arena. The Gamemakers didn't stop them, figuring that it was a baseless threat.

It was not. Both of them ate the berries and died in seconds. The Gamemakers didn't want to revive such a blatant symbol of rebellion to be their victor, but they'd mutilated the third-place tribute so badly that bringing him back to life would do more harm than good, and the fourth-place tribute had been dead for too long to revive. Thus, they had to settle for no victor at all that year.

The Third Quarter Quell twist was revealed almost a year later, and it was announced that the District each of the 24 tributes would come from would be determined by a giant spinner. Needless to say, it stopped on District Twelve far more times than any other District.

They'd expected lots of weak, pitiful children to be murdered in the opening seconds, proving that all acts of rebellion of that scale would be punished. However, District Twelve put together a strong showing, formed a massive alliance, and slaughtered all the Careers except one in the Bloodbath. (And there were more Careers than usual that year because the spinning wheel had been rigged to land on Districts 1, 2, and 4 slightly more often as well.)

Despite the Gamemakers sending far more than their fair share of threats towards the band of District Twelve tributes, at the end of it all, Corinne, one of the girls from Twelve, wound up victorious, becoming a massive headache for the Capitol in the process. (Sure, seven other District Twelve kids died, but that's still better than eight, and it was more proof that they could thwart the Capitol's attempts to beat them down.)

But really, why does any of that matter? Corinne was pretty strong in her own right, from what I heard. All I am is some flimsy sixteen-year-old who can barely pick up his fork to eat dinner.

Lacey sits quietly through all of this. She hasn't seemed to react at all to anything so far, except when she fell over during the Tribute Parade. _Then_ she said plenty, but I don't feel comfortable repeating most of it.

Something tells me that even if I want allies, Lacey probably isn't going to be one of them. I can't seem to start a conversation with her, no matter what I try, and she honestly unnerves me a little.

Maybe I'll find an ally in the next few days. Maybe I won't.

But either way, these next few weeks are going to be hard.

* * *

 **Sotia Vance, District Three Female**

* * *

Now that dinner's over, all five of us are sitting on the couch, watching some mindless television show. In theory, anyway.

Mirabile, the escort, is laughing his head off like he's never seen anything this funny in his life, even if this show is almost as bad as the cartoons we get back home. My mentor, Wendy, is half-asleep, her head propped up with two pillows. Rhaemyr's mentor, Gear, is sitting bolt upright, barely paying attention to the show as he fiddles with something in his hands. Rhaemyr, who's sitting right next to me, stares at the screen with a bored look, as do I.

After the characters onscreen make yet another awful pun, Rhaemyr leans close to me and whispers something in my ear. "We didn't get television back where I lived, but based on this, I don't think I missed much."

It's not _that_ funny, but I'm so desperate for a happy thought to hold onto that I burst out laughing like crazy and can't stop. Mirabile, Gear, and Wendy proceed to look at me like I'm some kind of lunatic (no surprise there), while Rhaemyr proceeds to move a bit further away.

All of a sudden, Gear perks up. "Oh, wait! Before you guys go anywhere, I have something for you two. I do it for every tribute, I don't know why I almost forgot this time…". Just like that, he stood up and hurried out of the room, leaving the half-finished thing he'd been working on behind.

Wendy sighs before lying back down again. Mirabile has no visible reaction.

"Any theories as to why he just stormed out of the room like that?" With Wendy semi-unconscious and Mirabile paying no attention to us, Rhaemyr turns to me for that question.

"Yes. None of them particularly pleasant, but yes," I respond.

The two of us sit in silence for the few minutes until Gear returns, trying to ignore Wendy's grunts that are turning into snores and Mirabile's obnoxious laughter. The sitcom becomes increasingly harder to ignore, like an itch that you just can't scratch, no matter how hard you try. Finally, about five seconds before I break and start ranting about how incomprehensibly awful this garbage posing as… well, anything besides pure torture, Gear finally returns, gripping two sheets of paper and two run-of-the-mill pencils.

"Oh, great," Rhaemyr whispers. "Why the heck does the Hunger Games come with homework? I thought that was, like, the one benefit of getting Reaped."

Gear, even if he heard that statement, appears to ignore it. "Sorry about this, guys. This is just a little questionnaire I made my second year mentoring. It's designed to compare you with other victors so we know how to prepare you best for the Games."

"Is it long?" Both of us ask this question in an almost-eerie unison.

"Not _that_ long," Gear replies, in a tone that makes me realize that yes, this is going to be pretty long.

He gives each of us a questionnaire and a pencil. I quickly flip to the back of the page so I can count the number of questions, and it reveals that there are twenty-seven questions total. Thankfully, most of them are just yes-no questions, meaning that this isn't going to be too boring.

Most of the questions are very ordinary, like "List your hobbies," and "Do you have experience with building things?" However, there are a few weird ones, like "Have you ever eaten something that a normal person would not qualify as food?"

I finish the thing in about twenty minutes and give mine back to Gear as Rhaemyr keeps furiously scribbling. I'm reminded of the tests I got in school back home, where I was always among the first few people to finish.

I turn to talk to Wendy, to see if she has any tips for tomorrow, but she's passed out on the couch. I guess I'll just have to wait until Rhaemyr is done and Gear can do whatever analysis he needs to do on this thing.

Finally, Rhaemyr shouts "done!". He gives his questionnaire, which is covered with random doodling, to Gear as well. Gear proceeds to vanish into his bedroom, presumably to try and make sense of what we put down.

The garbage masquerading as a sitcom mercifully ends a few minutes later. Mirabile takes that as an opportunity to shut off the television and vanish from the room, calling "see you guys tomorrow!" over his shoulder.

Wendy has started snoring by the time Gear comes out of his room, holding the same sheets of paper a second time, although he's written so much over the both of them that I could barely recognize them for what they once were.

"Unsurprisingly, you two both related pretty closely to a victor of the past," Gear says. "Rhaemyr, you came up as being closest to String Luckher, Victor of the 58th Hunger Games-" Rhaemyr has a neutral look on his face, clearly he's never heard about her Games before- "and Sotia, strangely enough, the victor you got matched with is me."

I gesture towards all the writing, and he says, "I take extensive notes. No surprise here, but I hate watching people I know die, so I want to get someone out of the arena. Unfortunately, ever since I won, that's gotten a _lot_ harder…"

It makes sense. After he exterminated all the Careers during their second night in the arena by electrocuting them while they were asleep inside the Cornucopia (from the secondhand knowledge I have of his Games, anyway) the Careers presumably learned to prevent anyone with technological prowess from leaving the Bloodbath with supplies, at all costs. In fact, a few years ago, the boy from Two said his mentor had told him "District Three tributes are like a ticking time bomb. They can go off at any time and you need to get rid of them as soon as possible."

"Come on, you two," Gear says. "I'd like you to watch your Victor's Hunger Games before we go to bed. It'd be nice if we had an idea of what you need to focus on in training." Then, he adds, "Wendy, can you set up the 79th Games on the television in Sofia's room? I'm going to set up the 58th in Rhaemyr's."

Gear heads for Rhaemyr's bedroom and Rhaemyr follows. Wendy staggers towards my room, nearly toppling on the way there.

With a small sigh, I follow, hoping that somehow this will provide something I can use tomorrow.

* * *

 **Odysea Davos, District Eleven Female**

* * *

"So, you work in the fields too?"

Thomiah nods, the motion barely noticeable. "Yes, I do, or _did_ would be more accurate at this point. It gets a little easier after a few years."

Cordelia, my mentor, goes to bed super early (like 8:00 early), and Citrus, Thomiah's mentor, is currently downstairs grabbing a book he left in the lobby, meaning Thomiah and I are alone. With nothing else to do (sure, we could turn on the television, but every program Citrus and Cordelia found earlier is just Capitolites raving about the upcoming Games, which neither of us wants to be reminded of), we're just sitting around and trying to have a conversation. Unfortunately, neither of us appears to be that good at it.

Thomiah then asks a few more questions, rapid-fire style. "So, any idea what you're going to focus on tomorrow? And what did you make of the Careers? You think we'll need to give them a really wide berth this year?"

"Survival skills and a weapon, I don't think they're that bad in comparison to the norm, and everyone always has to do that, specifically in that order," I respond.

Thomiah lets out a little half-snicker before reverting back to the serious tone of before. He quietly fiddles with his hands, letting an awkward silence fill the room once more, broken only by a fan kicking in above us.

I decide to take the reins once more, and ask Thomiah, "Any experience with weapons?"

Before he can answer, the door swings open, and Citrus hurries in, the book he'd been hunting for clutched in his hands.

Just looking at him, you could tell he was from District Eleven. Deep brown skin, dark eyes, heavily scarred hands, small, thin stature. The only concession he's made to kinda-sorta fit into the Capitol culture is that his black hair is dyed a rainbow of colors at the ends, with orange and yellow being the most prominent. He wears a plain shirt and ripped jeans, but he also has a strange necklace with a miniature cactus dangling from it, of all things.

Sure, it doesn't make a ton of sense, but after he got dumped into a desert arena two-and-a-half decades ago, he resorted to eating cacti to stave off dehydration. The Gamemakers cranked things up _way_ too far that year, from what I've heard- very few of the deaths were from combat.

After Citrus was airlifted out of the Arena, he allowed the surgeons to remove all the needles that had accumulated in his stomach and intestines over the course of his Games (he tried to pick them off a cactus before he started eating, but he was bound to miss a few) but asked them to leave the scars on his hands. I have no idea why, considering I'd probably get flashbacks to my games every time I saw them, but he probably has his own reasons.

"You two getting along? Just asking quickly, because the last two we got _hated_ each other," Citrus says.

"We're doing fine," Thomiah says. "Both of us have pretty similar backgrounds, so that's a good starting point."

"Sounds great," replies Citrus. "I'm going to clock out- something tells me tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"Okay," I reply. "It's going to be a long day for us, too."

Citrus disappears into his room, leaving the two of us alone.

Thomiah smiles. "Any specialty skills you have that I might want to be aware of?"

I shake my head. "In the fields, you don't learn a ton of those, except maybe patience. And maybe poison ivy detection- that grows _everywhere_ in the fields if you don't catch it early."

"Same here," says Thomiah. "I know some kids put alcohol tolerance down as a skill- like that will ever come in handy- but I can't even do that since I haven't even been drunk before."

Just for a quick second, I manage a smile. "What, you thought I was going to break into the liquor cabinet or something now that Citrus and Cordelia are asleep? Because, no, I'm not like that at all."

"No," says Thomiah. "You don't seem like the type of person who'd show up on the first Training Day with a hangover."

I nod. "So, you thinking of a number you're trying to hit for your score?"

"I was thinking a seven or an eight. A threat, but not the first thing the Careers are going after."

"Huh. Me too," I reply.

Then, Thomiah steers the conversation into unexpected waters. "Just a quick question, are you trying to pick up allies or are you going solo all the way?"

I try to maintain a serious expression, but knowing me, I might just look constipated right now. "Allies, one hundred percent. I don't work that well alone."

Thomiah continues on. "Do you want to start as a group of two and see if we can pick up a couple extras together? We might have better odds of getting people with us if we stick together from the beginning."

Holy… crap. Sure, I was expecting to snag an ally or two by the time this was all over, and sure, my District partner is the person I'll have the most contact with over the next few days, but I never expected anyone to pop the question this soon. Although, maybe I should have guessed it was coming based on the direction this conversation was going.

"Yeah, I don't see why not."

Thomiah smiles, and then suddenly yawns. "I don't know about you, but I want to get some rest before tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. See you at breakfast tomorrow." With that, he turns for his room, quietly slipping in through the open door before shutting it behind him, leaving me alone.

I'm exhausted too, but I'm quite nervous about tomorrow, meaning I probably won't sleep a wink. However, it's going to be best if I try, at least.

I walk into my own room and practically throw myself onto the bed. It feels like heaven compared to the scratchy hay-and-straw-stuffed cot I have back home, but all it does is mask the fact that none of this should be happening. I should be home, soaked in sweat after another difficult day in the fields, eating a small meal of raw vegetables, like I'm used to. Not here.

With that on my mind, I roll over and try to settle down for the night.

My eyes close, but I know that isn't going to do anything this time.

* * *

 **Godric Runestone, District Two Male**

* * *

I can't sleep.

Part of it is because Crag snores louder than anyone I've ever met (it's so loud that it sounds like it's coming from a microphone, and that's with a wall separating us). However, the rest comes from sheer nervousness.

It's one in the morning. I should be running through what I'm going to do to show the other Careers that I'm the best candidate to lead them, hands down, or better yet, be asleep. Despite that, I figure that maybe some fresh air will help, so I decide to head for the roof.

It's a pretty well-known fact that the building has its rooftop built for people to be up there. Sure, it's impossible to commit suicide up here the conventional way (I learned that in the Academy, where it was mentioned that before the third Games a blatant rebel jumped off the roof as opposed to giving the Capitolites a show), and it might get kind of chilly at night, since it's not insulated, but it's still wide open, has spots to relax, and gets you a good view of the nighttime sky (although not much else, because the light pollution from the Capitol makes it difficult to see the starts even when it's clear out).

I contemplate leaving a note, but it's not like I can escape the building or anything, so I skip it and begin to exit the suite. Crag is still snoring up a storm, and Cassidy and Galadia both appear to be asleep as well, although Cassidy is shifting around and grunting a lot as she does so.

Without slowing down or even looking back, I stride down the empty, near-silent hallway and into the open elevator. One quick ascent upwards later, the elevator doors slide open to reveal the rooftop.

You can tell this place was designed to be fancy. I'm currently in some kind of garden area covered by some kind of thin plastic ceiling and filled with the intoxicating scent of exotic flowers. There aren't any walls, just a handful of thin rods arranged in a square to hold up the ceiling. A handful of benches dot the roof in a seemingly random pattern. On each side, I manage to catch a glimpse of the brightly-lit Capitol as thousands of people live their ordinary lives (even if it is later than I'd expect most to be up).

Without a second thought, I move out into the open, looking up to see if this is the same sky I'd be seeing back home. Unfortunately, that's not true- all I can see is a lazy, luminous half-moon, drifting in what may as well be a sea of black ink.

I wonder what Dorian and Freya are doing now that I'm gone. Has Dorian essentially moved into Freya's house? Has my volunteering finally gotten it through to Dad that he's screwed up in how he raised us, or has it just driven him to turn all his anger toward Dorian for not telling him? If I somehow get home, how am I supposed to live in the Victor's Village with the person who made my childhood a living hell just a few doors down?

So many questions, so few answers.

"You're nervous too?"

I whirl around at the sound of another voice, not sure what to expect. However, when I take a closer look, I notice the plain silver dress and the red hair. Without a doubt, it's the girl from Four.

"You can come closer, you know," she says. "I don't bite."

Sure, she can say that all she wants, but that doesn't mean I can turn my back on her for a second. Unfortunately, I'm a Career too, so I guess the same sentiment applies to me.

Nevertheless, I move closer, close enough that I can see her attempt at a half-smile. "Sienna Starboard, District Four."

I relax a little. "Godric Runestone, District Two. What are you doing up here?"

Sienna sighs. "Honestly, trying to stave off a panic attack so I can get some sleep tonight. Things have _not_ gone well for me these past few days."

Without realizing it, I'm already brushing this girl off. Sure, she might have had a few bad days, but just about _every_ day back home was a bad day for me.

"Maybe we can just talk for a little and try to work things out, especially since we're going to have to work together tomorrow anyway?"

Sienna's uneasy expression changes back to a semi-smiling one. "Eh, I don't see why not." Then, she heads for the ledge blocking off the edge of the roof and swings her legs over it without a second thought.

Without stopping, I do the same thing, not caring too much about the falling risk. A fall would hurt a lot, but I'd still be alive and on the roof when it was all over.

"So, what do you think of your District partner? Because mine is, to say the least, different," Sienna says.

I hadn't seen much of Galadia before she volunteered yesterday, but I'd seen plenty of Iridium, having been introduced to her six months earlier when it became clear she was probably the best contender on the girls' side. Iridium wasn't half bad- she hardly ever talked, but when she did, if not polite, she was at least civil. Galadia made it clear on the train she didn't like Iridium because she thought Iridium was a moron, and she's essentially waging war on her mentor (even though I don't particularly care for Cassidy either, I'd at least try not to lose my cool with her), although I don't know why she does that either. In short, I don't know how to compare her to Iridium, or analyze her in general, for that fact.

So, for now, I just say, "She's definitely… interesting."

"Mine, too," Sienna replies. "He's not even a Career, just some random guy who volunteered to save his mom. Sure, that's a nice gesture, but it's going to make winning the Games a hell of a lot harder."

"Did he want to join the Careers?"

Sienna sighs. "I asked him on the train, and he declined. He said he doesn't want any allies."

Based on what I know of the Games, that's not a very sound strategy, especially since all but two (arguably three) victors of the Games since the third Quarter Quell either started out in an alliance or joined one after they entered the arena. Even most of the more out-of-the-ordinary victors had alliances to work with.

I decide to ask the next question. "Do you have any ideas about the pair from One?"

"They both _look_ like Careers, at least," says Sienna. "Not sure about the guy's personality, he seems normal, but the girl looks like a tough cookie. She seems like the kind of person who'd get in three knives after the first one landed, just for good measure."

"Let's try not to tick her off tomorrow," I add. "You remember how dysfunctional the Careers were last year? I don't want this pack to be anything like that one if I can help it."

"Yeah," Sienna says, "Sirena told me some stories about that pack. Apparently, the members got along so poorly that they broke apart on The theirs training day and finished separately, which is just about unheard of."

There's silence for a few seconds. Then a few more. Finally, I decide to turn and leave, hoping to get just a little sleep before training tomorrow. Taking care not to fall off the roof in the process, I slide off the ledge, beginning to walk back towards the elevator.

When I get there and press the button, I turn and see that Sienna has followed me. The door eventually dings, and we step into the contraption, preparing to be launched down to our floors. As it descends, Sienna asks one final, fatal question.

"How do you feel about being a legacy tribute?"

I seize up without meaning to. Throat goes dry. I manage to get out a few monosyllabic words before Sienna gives me a friendly smile and says, "It's okay, never mind. I'm worried about having expectations to live up to, too. _Especially_ with all the nutso crap my sister did at the end of her Games."

The elevator reaches her floor, and she steps out and throws me a quick, hasty, "See you tomorrow." Then, she disappears from view.

Only after she heads out do I notice that not only have I frozen up, my knees and elbows have gone rigid, I'm drenched in cold sweat, and my stomach feels like something has exploded in there. I can't force myself to move again until the elevator slows and opens for a second time, and when I do, it feels stiff, unnatural, and strange.

Then, I check the clock on the wall, noticing that it's two in the morning. I need some sleep.

Like that's going to be easy now.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Finally, finally, _finally_ have a chapter out! And it's a biggie. Training Day One comes next, everyone! I'm keeping the POVs a surprise this time.

-We have officially hit 100k words! (Probably not a good thing, since we haven't even gotten to Training yet, but I'm celebrating it anyway!)

-Just for the heck of it, I'm going to ask a quick check-in question to see who's actively reading (I understand if you're not, to be honest). The question is below, please PM the answer if possible:

 **-How do you think your tribute(s) will fare during Training?**

-Sorry for the long wait. See you next chapter (hopefully soon!)

-EDIT, 1/12/20: Added a trigger warning at the request of a reviewer.


	32. Training 1-A: New Friends (and Enemies)

**Chapter Thirty-One: New Friends (and Enemies)**

* * *

 **Training Day One**

* * *

 **Marius Coin, District Nine Male**

* * *

I'm hurrying to spread cream cheese on a bagel, wanting to finish all my food before I have to go down and face… well, everything.

Toren's eating is a little more refined, while Anisa barely seems to be eating at all. Miller finished eating long before the rest of us even got up, saying his internal clock had been altered drastically after his innumerable early mornings in the bakery to serve the morning rush.

"Is this going to suck?" I ask Miller this through a mouthful of food, not really caring about politeness at this point.

"Depends on what the Careers make of you," Miller responds. "If they ignore you, you'll probably be fine. If they single you out, though, that'll be a nightmare. Really, the only reason I got through three days of training was that I could break down sobbing in a hurry every time."

Okay, now I'm confused. "How did that help?"

"If you react right away, they get bored and move on. Otherwise, they'll just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you either try to punch one of their faces in or break down crying anyway. Just get it over with as soon as possible if that happens, because it won't be pretty either way."

I manage to give Miller a cream-cheese-stained smile. "Thanks for the help."

"No need, it's what I'm supposed to do here," Miller says.

Suddenly, an unseen mechanism whirs to life, filling the room with a droning noise that makes everything else seem quiet by comparison. Over the hideous sound, a cool female voice calls, "Attention, all tributes! Training starts in ten minutes. Please begin to make your way to the Training Room. That is all."

The machine shuts off, leaving blissful silence in its place. I chomp down the last few bites of my food before standing up, waiting for Toren to finish her peach and her bowl of cereal. When she slurps down the last of the milk in the bowl, we hurriedly pile the plates, dishes, and cups into a reasonably manageable arrangement, and head for the elevator.

When the elevator doors open with a pleasant _ding_ , it's revealed that they're not empty- the kids from Twelve must have started their trip down earlier. Either way, we can still fit pretty easily, with Anisa and Miller standing together, Toren standing next to District Twelve's already-drunk boys' mentor, and I wait next to the petite girl from Twelve, who gives me such a disdainful expression it's a wonder I don't explode on the spot.

The elevator plunges for a short while before being stopped again, allowing another District- Six or Five or something along those lines- to cram the elevator even more. The girl squeezes next to Toren, and the boy does the same with me, having trouble finding space even though he's pretty small.

Thankfully, that's the last stop we make before the Training Center, where all of us pile out in utter relief. Sure, we might be preparing for a deathmatch, but at least we're no longer cramped. Silver linings, right?

We're not quite in the Training Center yet, just a hallway outside it- the doors are locked. I guess they do that so no one can start early or something, I don't really know.

Each of us wears uniforms denoting our District number, so it's pretty easy to tell who's there and who isn't. Off the bat, I spot the pair from Five quietly having a conversation towards the side of the hall, the girl from Seven snickering at some sort of private joke, and the monstrous boy from One fluidly moving from one terrifying-looking pose to another, seemingly to brush up on combat skills.

A few minutes of this later, the announcement mechanism starts up again, with the voice telling us, "The doors to the Training Room are now opening. Please enter the room if you have arrived. That is all."

As I file in through the enormous doors, I catch my first glimpse of the Training Room. And boy, is it enormous.

Calling it a "room" is not a satisfactory description. Perhaps a "complex" might be a better word. The ceiling is almost nonexistent, revealing a network of thick, sturdy pipes high, high above our heads. Vertical, however, is not the only dimension this room is gigantic in. Near me are all sorts of survival stations, from fire starting to first aid to water purifying to swimming. Farther away are the weapon stations, staffed by trainers and stuffed with racks and racks and racks of every weapon I've heard of and then some. Combat dummies (some missing limbs or even heads) appear now and then, and targets (I guess for weapons that need to be thrown) are set up against a back wall. A smaller section to the left seems to be purely dedicated to fitness- even though the only way I can tell that is from the weights and the small track. Besides that, there's nothing but a bunch of electrical contraptions that I've never seen before in my life. Finally, a handful of doors are set in the right wall, with the words "SCENARIO SIMULATORS" hung on a banner above them. And even with all this, the room is so big I can't see how anyone could possibly bump into each other.

Before I can finish taking it all in, a hulking man with a scar splitting his face steps forward and begins to address us. "Hello, everyone. My name's Cutter, and I'm the head trainer here. Oh, and before you ask about this-" he gestured to his scar- "I got it in a bar fight. Some lunatic thought I was flirting with his girlfriend. He came out way worse than I did."

Thankfully, he keeps talking so fast that no one has time to ask any follow-up questions. "Really, there's not much you need to know. Survival stuff is here, weapons are in the back, and there's some fitness equipment on the left. If you need a simulator powered up, just ask Cherry- she's the head trainer over there, easy to spot. No fighting other tributes, no suicide attempts, for Panem's sake, do _not_ personally test whether something is poisonous, and make sure you don't spend all your time in one place. That's all, if you have any more questions I'll be running the target practice station. May the odds be ever in your favor."

He steps back, leaving the rest of us to disperse around the room. I decide to start with the edible plant station first.

I've never been that good with plants, but maybe, with some practice, I _won't_ eat something in the Games that makes me drop dead.

Once I get there, the screen lights up, and that's when it dawns on me that the final countdown has started.

* * *

 **Clara Ridley, District One Female**

* * *

The feeling of actually being in control of my own life is the most invigorating feeling I've ever had, hands down.

From when I wake up to when I go to sleep, I get to choose what to wear, what I'll eat, where I'll spend my free time- I could go on and on, but then I'd be stuck there forever.

I can finally become a leader in my own life. And, if all goes well, I'll be leading four other people by the time training ends. That's why I'm the one yelling, "Hey! You know who you are! We're meeting in the center of the room in three minutes!"

I smirk slightly as most of the outliers begin to creep towards the walls, then begin to wait for the other Careers to arrive. They don't take long. First comes Nascar, then the red-haired girl from Four (I know I should remember her name, but I don't). A minute or so later, a hulking boy even bigger than Nascar strides up with a much smaller girl following in his wake, their uniforms marking them as the District Two tributes.

Once all of them get in the center, I start waiting for the sixth Career. But he doesn't show up.

"Whoever the boy from Four is, you're testing my patience," I say as loudly as I can.

His District partner proceeds to pipe up. "He's… not coming. He said he doesn't want to be part of the Careers."

Okay, then. Color me surprised. "His loss, then. Let's just introduce ourselves so we're not constantly asking each other what our names are." Once again, I decide to start off. "Clara Ridley, District One."

"I'd say that it's a pleasure to meet you, but we've known each other for literally five seconds," the smaller girl from Two says. "Galadia Devinson, District Two."

The boy next to her smiles, but it looks pained. "I'm Godric, also from District Two. I prefer to just go by Godric, if that's OK."

Nascar nods, and I do the same. Then, Nascar states what I already know. "Nascar Galluci, District One. I hope to break the streak of bad luck we've had recently."

All of us smile, but it looks painful on everyone except maybe the girl from Four. Ever since Polaris brought honor to our District four years ago, all of his successors have died in the Bloodbath.

Staccato of the Ninety-Second got decapitated by the crazy murderer from Ten.

Tuxedo of the Ninety-Third got hit by friendly fire from his District partner, who just wanted to hit the twins from Three cowering behind him.

Carat of the Ninety-Fourth got stabbed by the boy from Five and the girl from Nine, the big anti-Career alliance of the year.

The girl from Four finally introduces herself, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Sienna Starboard, District Four. Nice to meet you."

"Okay then," I say. "Now that we all know each others' names- I don't think we'll have any problems pronouncing them or anything stupid like that- what do you want to focus on for the first few hours?"

Everyone except me shouts something at the same time. Needless to say, I have no idea what any of them said on their own. All I can do is say, "Can you repeat yourselves, and try _not_ to talk over each other this time?"

Galadia says, "Machete training," _way_ too eagerly.

Godric and Sienna both say, "Survival skills." When I give them a confused look, the only response I get back is "What? If we get dropped into a really nasty arena, we don't want to be starving and thirsty."

"How about we just split up for now? We'll meet up again at lunch and try to stick together after that," Nascar suggests. "Clearly, all of us want to do things that just aren't compatible with each other."

"Sounds good to me," Galadia says. I nod in agreement.

"Well, if you two-" he points to Godric and Sienna- "want to stick together, I don't have a problem with that," Nascar says. "But let's go, let's go, we're wasting time!"

Our group splits up pretty quickly after that. Nascar goes straight for a sword, Galadia grabs a machete, Sienna heads off for what appears to be some sort of pool, and Godric starts up a hologram designed to give out some basic knowledge about edible plants.

As for me, I hit the building station. Knives are higher on my priority list because they're much easier to use and come into play more frequently, but traps are a bit of a specialty of mine. The pair from Five is already there, trying to make something, but the second I arrive, they move as far away from me as they can. I can't help but smirk a little.

With the sound of the Fives whispering as background noise, I start to assemble a trap I remember from training, hoping everything I learned there didn't leak out in the brief period I've been away.

* * *

 **Spark Emmersen, District Five Male**

* * *

The Career less than twenty feet away scares the ever-loving crap out of me.

Sure, she _looks_ calm right now. She's actually humming a little as she puts together parts so fast her fingers seem to blur, but there's obviously a killer hidden inside. Tall, sinew and muscles everywhere, hardened fingers and a deadened look in her eyes. I've seen that look before, but back home it always comes from the worst of the worst- those so broken they have nothing left to lose.

"Hey," Catarina whispers in my ear. "Don't let her distract you. Just keep your eyes on this."

I try to, and it works, for a little while, at least. However, once the thing is finished, it stops being a viable tactic. The trap we've made is a dull, muted gray, bulging outwards like it's going to explode into pieces any minute. Hopefully, it stays together long enough that we can actually get to test it, but there's no guarantee.

Trying to not look at whatever the Career is putting together, I go to grab one of the burlap dummies that are used to test traps. Once I grab one, the only thoughts I have about it concern that this thing is _way_ heavier than I'd expected. It's not impossible, but getting it over to the trap is hard enough that I start sweating a little from the effort.

Once I set up the dummy on the so-called "motion simulator" (it drags the dummy over a trap to see if it activates), Catarina's already dragged the thing so it's ready to go. One button press later, it's moving along with a horrible clanking sound.

The dummy brushes the trap with a decent amount of force, but it doesn't spring. Instead, the thing remains exactly the same while the dummy goes on its merry way to the end of the line.

"Well, it's our first try," Catarina says. "We can't expect everything to go right the first time we try it."

Before I can respond, my eyes are drawn to whatever Career this is, who's set up her own trap and dummy. Unlike our trap, where it was obvious that the thing was hastily cobbled together without any real knowledge of how to build one, this girl's trap looks so smooth and shiny and perfect that I'm wondering whether this is her profession back home or something.

Her dummy gets caught in the trap, it springing on the first try. No doubt, if that thing was used on a human, they'd be good as dead.

"Ignore her," Catarina says. "She's probably been doing this for years."

Good advice, if it wasn't impossible to follow. Considering I'm pretty confident she's only doing this to try and psych us out, her entire goal appears to be to get us to focus on the crap she's doing. Somehow, Catarina is resisting the temptation, but if someone were to base how well she was doing on me, they'd conclude she was doing a damn good job.

Catarina disappears for a minute and then returns with parts that we can either add to the existing trap or just make a whole new trap with them. Without a word, we start to screw everything together once more, and thankfully the Career girl moves on to another station, leaving us alone in the Trap Pit, as I heard one of the trainers call it.

Fifteen minutes later, yet another trap is built. We drag another dummy over to the motion simulator and set it up and press the button and blah blah blah. That's not really important. All that is important is that the trap fails to activate a second time, leaving another dummy unharmed.

We've barely started doing this, but I already know my odds are looking worse by the second. At this rate, no one is going to want to bet on me, which is a big problem because I need sponsor money to survive.

"Hey! Earth to Spark!" Catarina tries to get in my face, but she's so much smaller than I am she has to resort to just waving her arms. "Come on, we need to focus. I can't have you vanishing into la-la-land every five minutes."

I do nothing more than nod, and decide to just get more parts to try and fix the traps we've already made, even though we should probably move on and try something else soon.

Hopefully, we can at least do _one_ thing right today.

* * *

 **Remi Hamick, District Six Male**

* * *

I _really_ hope I don't have to resort to eating insects.

Sure, the fake plastic bugs that we get in the Training Center are brightly colored to such a degree that they look diseased, but I'm sure eating them is a whole lot worse than just touching them (the squirming _really_ might kill my appetite), not to mention that these things aren't, well, alive.

After about half an hour of fruitless sorting and knowledge about insects that may or may not come in handy later, I decide to just move on to another station for now. There are a million different things to do here, so I may have to do some walking around to find what I want to try next. However, I can't do that for too long or I might risk the Gamemakers thinking that I've just given up.

As I walk, I take note of what everyone else is doing. The Careers all appear to be handling nasty weapons that could cut me to ribbons in two seconds, making me gulp and steer well clear of them. Both kids from Eleven are putting together a relatively nice-looking shelter. The boy from Eight is being taught how to properly use a knife, but even during the few seconds of it that I can catch, it keeps sliding around in his grip and he can never seem to hold onto it tightly enough. I even pass by Zari quickly as she tries her hand at water purification, but she doesn't even look my way.

Finally, I stop at the climbing wall. While I'm pretty confident we won't be scaling sheer cliffs at any point during the Games, some upper body strength probably wouldn't hurt. After an Avox helps me strap into a harness (which, thank whoever's listening for that, because that thing looks like it was designed by a rocket scientist or something), I start climbing up.

Just a few feet above the ground, I run into problems. I've never considered myself as being short, but I don't have the arm strength or flexibility to reach the good handholds more than a few feet apart. Plus, once the handholds begin to get sparser, I can't go anywhere, at all.

So, like an idiot, I fling myself at a handhold about a foot too high for me to safely reach. I actually manage to grab it for a second, but then my fingers slip and it's all over.

"Well, I guess I'm dead," I say as the harness lowers me back down. And once I hit the ground and start trying to solve the puzzle that is the restraints on this contraption, I realize that I gained an audience while I was up there.

Said audience consists solely of the girl from Two, who's getting suited up to try and make an attempt for the top as well. Right before she starts, she smirks at me. And once she does start, I can't help but stare at her a little.

She's smaller than I remember Careers being, but still, she can reach things that I couldn't, allowing her to easily bypass the point I fell off at before coming to the trickiest part of the wall (at least, it seems that way from here), an overhang that juts more than a foot outwards.

Without even hesitating, she swings an arm up, then a leg, then the rest of her. In no time at all, she's at the top.

That's when I realize I've been staring at her so intently I've forgotten that I still need to take off the harness before I can move on. Somehow, I manage to get about half the clasps and restraints off before the girl lowers herself to the floor, but once she hits the ground, I almost wish I hadn't.

"And that's why you're dead," she says to me.

"Because I'm short?"

Her casual expression is gone, replaced with irritation. "No. Because I'm better than you at this, and probably everything else, too."

Okay, now I think I know what she's doing. "If you're trying to flirt with me, that's not how you're supposed to do it…"

She does a double take. "Flirt? With you? I'd rather flirt with a corpse than with you!"

Oh, please. "Now you're just trying to cover it up, aren't you? You really are into me."

Her face turns so red that it looks like steam could come out of her ears. After calling me several names that I have _no_ idea what they're supposed to mean, she follows it up with, "And what the heck makes you such a flirting expert, Idiot Boy?"

Wow, that is easy. "Kiara, one of my best friends, she does it all the time. I learned everything from her."

The girl hisses, "Well, when I win this thing, I'll be sure to make note of how she sucks at flirting when I visit District Six."

That one hurts a little. "Okay then. You do you. Just make sure you don't get jumped by her friends on the way back to the train."

The girl growls at me, sticks both middle fingers up, and stalks away, hissing under her breath with all the subtlety and poise of a mechanic after an engine explodes. I watch her go, then realize that despite all that, I still have this stupid harness to take off.

I guess I should move on. It's not my fault she's playing hard-to-get. And I won't learn what I have to do in the Games via osmosis.

Try as I might, the Games won't go away if I just don't think about them.

All I can really do to help myself is to be prepared.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Not much to really say this time, except one, I'm not dead, and two, I hope to get at least one chapter out by Christmas for a little present for those of you still reading. Sorry this is going so slow.

-See you next chapter, hopefully!


	33. Training 1-B: Same Old, Same Old

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Same Old, Same Old**

* * *

 **Still Training Day One**

* * *

 **Vick Even, District Four Male**

* * *

Lunchtime feels like it came far too soon.

This place might have almost exactly the same hours as the hospital that I work at, but time appears to move way faster here because it barely felt like ten minutes before the trainers called for a lunch break. Pretty soon, they're bringing our a buffet table, and I'm guessing we're supposed to form some sort of line and serve ourselves.

The Careers get in front, but behind that, it's just a mess that resembles a blob more than a line. Eventually, it gets sorted out, leaving me somewhere in the middle of the line. In front of me, the scrawny girl from Eight stands so perfectly still I'm half-tempted to push her just to make sure she's alive. Behind me, the boy from Ten absentmindedly drums his fingers against his leg, eyes unfocused.

Finally, it's my turn to get food. Every plate starts with two pieces of weird, circular bread on it, with a piece of meat that matches in shape sitting on top of one of them. I take that, deciding to add only the things I recognize to it. In the end, it doesn't look that much different from when I started. After that, there's another table filled with things that I have no idea what they are but smell amazing, so I take some of those too. Finally, there's a cooler filled with canned drinks, so I grab a blue one and make my way back to the tables that have been haphazardly set up in the center of the arena.

All the Careers are sitting together, to no one's surprise. They're all talking animatedly as they chow down on whatever this is supposed to be. There's a couple of other clusters, but besides them, the boy from Twelve and his District partner sit as far away from each other as possible, not speaking a word. A handful of kids sit alone, poking at their food. A few push away their trays, not hungry either out of overindulging at breakfast or through simple nerves. Not even bothering to look for a table with no one at it, I plop my tray down, wondering how I'm supposed to eat this stuff.

I take note of how the Careers do it- except for Sienna, they seem to pinch everything between the bread and try to eat it that way. I do the same, and then take a bite of the thing.

I don't quite understand what this is made of, but it's amazing. Within a minute or two, the stuff is gone and I've turned to the small pile of brown rings and yellow pseudo-rectangles. They taste even better, and I've eaten it all before I realized I haven't even touched my drink.

Now, most of the Careers are done, and they're all talking far louder than most rational human beings would. The girl from One starts off with, "so, where do you guys plan to go after lunch?"

To which the girl from Two loudly replies, "More weapons! Every little bit counts, right?"

As their conversation continues, the outliers all noticeably move away from them, finding new seats at tables that don't get them lambasted with noise.

Soon, my table has two temporary residents- the petite girl with a doll's face from Three, and the grim-looking, silent boy from Seven. Neither of them says a word or even acknowledges the existence of either me or each other, but they're here, and I'm going to have to live with it for a few minutes.

Suddenly, someone calls out, "Five minutes to finish lunch, then we're starting training back up again."

That's when I notice the blue can full of liquid has remained untouched. It takes a bit of struggling to figure out how to open it (to the amusement of the girl from Three) but I eventually manage it, the thing opening with a hiss.

I tip the can back and take a drink.

Then proceed to immediately spit it back out.

Not only is the liquid obnoxiously sweet- I wouldn't be too surprised if I'm drinking liquid sugar- it starts up this weird bubbling sensation in my mouth that I'm not quite sure how to describe. I'm just going to stick to water from now on.

"Lunchtime's over, folks," Cutter says. "Back to Training you go!"

I don't bother trying to finish my drink, but I almost feel guilty throwing the can of liquid in the trash. That is, until I catch a glimpse of the ingredients label. The drink is revealed to be made almost entirely with stuff that I can hardly read, let alone pronounce. Not sure if there's a recycling bin in sight around here- or even if the Capitol cares about such a thing- I dispose of the can, although I start feeling kind of guilty about it.

Everyone begins getting up, heading back to training. Not wanting to start falling behind, I do the same thing. As I do, I say the mantra that's gotten me up to this point over and over again.

 _Mom, this is for you. If I can do this, we can be together and happy again._

* * *

 **Thomiah Marshall, District Eleven Male**

* * *

I'm curious as to what the scenario simulators can do.

I haven't seen anyone enter or leave, let alone heard even the slightest bit of conversation directed towards it. Partially out of wanting to be well-rounded in training and partially due to being bored of just hitting survival stations, I practically drag Odysea away from the edible plants test, saying, "Come on, we have to see what these things are. They could be really useful."

She replies with "More useful than finding stuff to eat?"

"If we get killed in the Bloodbath, we don't need to worry about eating, Odysea," I say.

I remember that Cutter told us to look for Cherry if we wanted a scenario set up, but I have no idea what she looks like. However, the moment I see a woman in a trainer's outfit with unnaturally red hair, long pointy fingernails in the same shade, and hoop earrings with what appears to be real fruit dangling from them, I think you can figure out who I assumed she was.

"You're Cherry, right?"

She turns around once I say that. "Yes, that I am. Do you want a scenario set up?"

"Yes, please," I say before we change our minds. Do you know what options there are?"

"There's a list on the far wall," she says. "There are far too many of them for me to tell them all to you right now, but our most popular ones from the last few years are 'Fighting Alliances', 'Attack from Above', 'Fire Safety', and 'Catching Dinner'."

"We'll start with 'Fighting Alliances,' if that's okay," I say. When Odysea gives me a look, I tell her, "We can do the fire safety and dinner ones later. I know you're more about survival than combat, I'm sorry if I'm coming off as pushy."

She nods a little but still doesn't look too happy. Cherry, however, doesn't slow down for a second. "Which variant would you guys like: Desperate Outliers, Organized Raid, or Career Alliance?"

"Organized Raid," Odysea says. "I'm assuming that's the medium one, right?"

"Right you are," Cherry says. "This will take about three minutes to set up. Grab the weapons of your choice, stand in front of any of the three doors, enter when the light above the door turns green. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," we both say. After that, we move over to the racks and racks of weapons. Odysea picks up a sharp knife that's so shiny, she can see her reflection in it. I almost take a knife as well, but then I see them.

I've worked with them all my life, so I'm no stranger to them, but them making their way here is something designed specifically to benefit field workers like me. I pass by the knives and take a scythe, its edge honed to perfection. Taking care to skirt around the Careers (all but two are locked in pretty vicious fights with trainers) we find a door. Soon, the light turns green and we go inside.

Once the door closes behind us, the room suddenly starts to shift a little. A few large, brown poles shoot out of the ground, presumably designed to resemble trees. The floor warps a little, changing to low, smooth bumps. And behind us, a pile of plastic supplies appears just as the same voice who called us down this morning begins to give us instructions.

"A group of three has set their sights on your supplies. Kill them if needed, but above all else, don't let them steal your bounty! Finally, make sure they don't kill you in the process. May the odds be ever in your favor."

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, a voice belonging to neither of us says, "They're over there! They have a ton of stuff!"

A hard, angry female voice follows it up with, "Well, let's take it!"

Suddenly, two orange silhouettes dart out, both armed with knives. The female one charges for me, while the guy goes for Odysea. As I move to block her knife with my scythe, I expect it to pass right through, but instead, it sounds with a pretty realistic _clang_ and stops moving, forcing me to push off to force her to take a step back. Odysea proceeds similarly. We block our attackers a few more times and then gain the upper hand.

That's when we notice that a third silhouette has come out of seemingly nowhere, and is right next to the big pile of supplies. It suddenly stiffens up once we see it, letting out a high-pitched shriek.

"Oh, no you don't!" Odysea slashes at her attacker with enough force to make him stumble backwards, barely keeping his footing, and she takes the risk of charging the would-be thief. Suddenly, he appears to grab a single box of something and try to make a run for it.

I would see more, but my attacker is pressing with renewed force, and I have to turn all my attention towards her. Once her friend joins in, I'm now the one who's barely reacting fast enough to stay alive.

A piercing wail erupts from the far side of the room, and even my attackers pause for a second to locate the source. As I do, I see the would-be thief dissolving into orange particles as Odysea yanks her knife from his "body." Thankfully, the only thing about this that isn't one hundred percent realistic is that her knife isn't stained orange after stabbing him.

After that, Odysea charges back towards where I'm standing. Once they see her, they only make a few more half-hearted slashes towards me before running away and disappearing again.

The room is suddenly bathed in a pale blue light, and the voice from before tells us, "Congratulations. Your endeavor was successful. Calculating percentile rank…"

A few seconds later, that gets followed up with, "Your attempt ranks in the 82nd percentile. In case you do not know what that means, it means that 82 percent of the attempts of this simulation either went the same as or worse than your attempt."

After that announcement, I walk out of the room feeling pretty good. Odysea's smile is wider than I've ever seen it before.

However, there's only so long you can stand around and feel good about yourself before people start staring. Also, there's still simulations we have to cover, mostly for Odysea.

"Want to try the fire safety one now?"

"You bet," Odysea replies, and we go to hunt down Cherry again.

With luck, this one will go just as well as the last one.

* * *

 **Romeo Brady, District Eight Male**

* * *

I've been trying to stay on the positive side of things, but this first day of training has been pretty horrible.

On top of failing in every aspect in terms of using a knife, today I found out that I'm a sluggish runner, have no knowledge of plants, can't swim a yard, and can't climb with any proficiency.

Unless the arena is centered around sewing somehow, I'm probably screwed. Well, _more_ screwed than I already was.

Right now, all I care about is avoiding the Careers and figuring out how to do the same in the Arena. As for my mentors, Tassel probably isn't the best option, since he fought most of the Careers head-on, but maybe String will have a few tips.

I've exhausted the available stations already, and I still have a few hours before we get sent back to our floors for dinner. With not a ton of stuff left to do, I scour the corners of the room for a while before deciding that maybe water purification is something easy that I could learn.

Unfortunately, that station is pretty small- one screen displaying options for what we'd like to try and clear out of the water, a small table with a stack of plastic cups to one side, and three rickety-looking plastic chairs. And one of those chairs is occupied, so there's even less space available than usual.

I grab my cup and take a seat next to the other occupant of the station, the boy from Twelve. He's currently staring at a cup of murky brown sludge with unidentified flecks floating at the top. Then, I pick my poisons- small rocks, something I have no idea how to pronounce but I'm guessing is some sort of disease, a gritty mixture of sand and dirt, and some crumbled-up leaves for good measure.

After a few seconds, a nasty liquid that looks bad and smells even worse pours into my cup, and I start moving to try and clean it up. Then the boy speaks, the first words I've heard him say since I got here. "You have to use a strainer to get out everything solid first," he says.

"Okay then," I say, grabbing one of the aforementioned strainers and pouring the contents of my cup through it. It's a painfully slow process, but soon enough, trickles of almost clear water begin dripping out from the mass of sludge on top.

Wow. This process makes watching paint dry seem exciting. Not wanting to just sit there and do nothing for five minutes while all the water trickles into the new cup, I decide to try and strike up a conversation, key word there being _try._

"What's your name again?" I'm not sure if that's the best or worst way I could have started this, but at least it gets a response.

"I'm Maxxer, but just call me Max, please. District Twelve, about to follow the example of my forty-five predecessors since the Second Quarter Quell even though I desperately don't want to."

I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to be impressed with his advanced knowledge that these Games will probably kill him whether he wants it or not or annoyed by his profoundly defeatist attitude. Either way, it's not doing a great job of keeping my spirits up.

Time drags on as both of us wait for the water to finish drip, drip, dripping. If this stool wasn't so uncomfortable, I probably could have fallen asleep.

Max gives up the ghost and grabs his mostly-full cup, then goes hunting for a vial of iodine. From the tips I've seen plastered around the table, iodine is great for killing off bacteria in the water, but we have to wait for about half an hour after we use it to make sure everything in there is dead. Even worse, if you put too much of the iodine in the water, it could become toxic and you'd get poisoned anyway.

But never mind that, I might as well get this crap done too. I can't spend the rest of the day here.

Ignoring the slow, steady leaking of water from the disgusting brown mass on the strainer, I join Max in hunting for the iodine vials. It takes way longer than it should, but they eventually turn up- they were buried deep inside a box that was under the table.

According to the instructions, we're supposed to put only one drop in per thermos if the water is clear, and five if it's not. Staring down at what I have, I can't tell which to classify it as, so I just compromise and put in three drops.

As far as I know, that's it for this station. I couldn't find a way to test if the water is safe or not (besides drinking it, which is probably a bad idea), so it's probably best to move on. However, before I make it more than two steps, Max pipes up.

"Hey," he says. "Want to stick together for a few stations? Misery loves company."

"Eh, I don't see why not." It's not like I'd been whizzing through stations before I got here. What's the harm of adding a potential ally to the list?

It looks like he's about to pop the question, but instead, he swallows hard, shakes his head a few times, and begins to wander towards another survival station with a label written in such elaborate letters that they're hard to read.

Trailing behind him, I realize with a start just how little I've accomplished. Sure, I think I understand how water purification works now. But I can barely run, barely fight, and don't even mention my climbing and swimming ability (or lack thereof).

I'll see if Max is into allies. Then, just maybe, today won't be a total wash.

* * *

 **Sotia Vance, District Three Female**

* * *

The stars and moon glow above me as I finally manage to get the fire lit.

It's silent and blissful for a few meager seconds. Then the sky vanishes from above me, a sudden blast of cold douses the flames, and I'm left in the same place I started in. Once that process is finished, a female voice is telling me, "Congratulations. Your endeavor was successful. Calculating percentile rank…"

As the door to the simulation room swings open, the voice adds on, "Your attempt ranks in the 63rd percentile. In case you do not know what that means…"

"I know what that means," I say to no one as I exit the room.

So far, I've just been trying to pick up knowledge on every survival skill that I can. If the arena is harsh, to contrast last year's, those skills will be a gold mine. Even if it's an ordinary arena, they're bound to come into play in the endgame.

There's almost nothing left survival-wise at this point. I have basic knowledge of how to swim (should I need it), I can start and put out fires, have made progress on building a rudimentary shelter, can purify water, and know what plants to avoid at all costs. At this point, the best thing I can do for myself is to learn how to counteract poisons. The last thing I want in the Games is to survive everything the Gamemakers throw at me and then drop dead from poisoned food.

The place I need to go is a pretty small table- not much there except for two plastic chairs, a screen that displays tips every now and again, and about two dozen vials containing a rainbow of liquids.

As I plop down into one of the remarkably-uncomfortable chairs, the screen gives me some basic tips to start off. In general, darker-colored poisons are faster-acting than lighter-colored ones. Most poisons used in the games are potent enough that one vial will almost certainly kill whoever ingests it. Most weaker poisons can be stopped with a common antidote, but stronger ones require an antidote specific to what was used. Said antidotes tend to be similar, slightly more cheery colors than the poison they match. Touching any poison you get is a bad idea because it could literally melt your fingers.

Using this knowledge, the screen instructs me to first separate the poisons from the antidotes and then match them properly. After it gives that instruction, the screen goes blank.

It's not that challenging, to be honest. Within a few minutes, all but two of them have been placed into categories. The reason I'm having trouble deciding with the last two is that yellow is such a grotesque color to begin with that it's impossible to tell which shade is supposedly "lighter." I'm so focused on staring at these things and trying to tell the difference that I barely notice when the other chair gets filled.

I set down the vial I'm holding and get familiar with my new company. She's not that much taller than me, and her skin is way paler than I'd expect for any human being ever, but she has enough muscle on her that I immediately assume she's a Career. When I lean back (without much subtlety, unfortunately for me) to take a look at the number on her back, my theory is confirmed- a gigantic '2' is stitched into the back of her shirt.

We haven't talked, fortunately enough. The first words that come out of her mouth are, "I'm doing this now. Okay?"

"Fine," I say. "Just let me finish my turn first."

The girl rolls her eyes with practiced efficiency. "You realize that I'm a Career, right?"

Wow. She walked right into one of the easiest traps in the book. Rolling my eyes back at her, I say, "And you realize that I don't give a damn, right?"

Her expression morphs into a snarl for a second before returning to the calm demeanor it used to be. "Seriously? That's the best you could come up with? I've heard better comebacks from preschoolers."

"Says the person who doesn't even have one prepped for what I just said, instead having to resort to changing the subject. Just quit now, I could do this all day."

The girl's face then changes into a shade of red my science teacher would have called "ruthenium chloride." If this was one of the stupid cartoons we got back home, her face would have exploded on the spot. Instead, she just looks like she dunked her face in the fake blood from the first aid station.

"I am so going to kill you once I get the chance, you do know that," she says.

"Well, good luck with that," I respond. "I guess basic social skills aren't part of the training curriculum for Careers."

She moves her arms like she wants to grab me, but stops at the last second. "Are you seriously making fun of the Academy? I trained my whole life for this-"

I don't even give her the chance to finish her sentence. "You trained your whole life to try and fail to intimidate the most innocent-looking fifteen-year-old on the planet in a glorified fitness center? Wow. You must feel _so_ proud of your life choices right now."

The girl fails to form a coherent sentence after that. Sure, she says plenty of things, but most of them are words that would make my father explode if he heard them in public. Then, she gives me the finger, pantomimes slashing my throat, and stalks away.

Whatever. If she wants to kill me, she wants to kill me. Chances are, I wasn't sticking around for the Bloodbath anyway. Anyone who shows even a hint of skill with electricity or technology has a gigantic target on their back once they enter the Arena.

As soon as that thought finishes, a voice announces over the intercom, "Five minutes until dinner. All tributes, please report to the center of the room."

I slam down the last two into random spots and have them evaluated for accuracy. I got everything correct- except for the freaking yellow ones. Of course. No time to fix it now.

As I hurry to the center of the room, I take care to avoid the still-fuming girl from Two. The last thing I want is for this to turn into a fistfight two minutes before dinner.

Cutter starts saying something to us, but most of it gets blanked out. One thought, however, echoes prominently in my mind.

 _One day down, two more to go._

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-And so, the first day of training winds to a close. And so does 2019! Happy New Year to all, and I hope to see you again next chapter!


	34. Training 2-A: Balancing the Odds

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Balancing the Odds**

* * *

 **Training Day Two**

* * *

 **Galadia Devinson, District Two Female**

* * *

I'm awake at the crack of dawn.

Or at least, I _think_ it's the crack of dawn. The building doesn't have any windows, so if I wanted to actually figure out if it's light outside, I'd need to go to the rooftop, and that's not happening right now. I may be awake at the moment, but I'm far from lively.

I wish I'd thought to get a book before I went to bed. As it is now, I don't have much to do but sit and watch the clock (which currently reads "5:48") until everyone gets up, since training doesn't start until 9:00.

I do just that for an hour and ten minutes, trying and failing to get back to sleep after every ten. At 7:00 on the dot, however, I hear enough noise coming from Cassidy's room that I make the assumption that she's gotten up. Chances are, the others will soon follow.

My outfit from yesterday is probably still in the closet- I hope it got washed after I wore it because that might have been the best thing I've ever trained in. Once I open up the door, I breathe a sigh of relief- it's there and it's clean. Without a second thought, I throw my clothes on, running a hand through my hair to try and get the knots out, before Cassidy opens the door.

"Look, kid," she says. "I know you probably hate me because of the little train incident. I'm not the biggest fan of you, either. But that doesn't mean I can just sit there for three days while you train. I have to try and help you at least a tiny bit. There's something I have to tell you."

"Is it that everything I've been doing is wrong? Because that's what I'm expecting at this point," I say.

"No! Your attempts to intimidate the outliers were actually good ones, and that's a decent strategy to have. You just need to be better at picking who to go after."

That makes perfect sense, as much as I hate to admit it. Both of my targets yesterday were barely fazed by me trying to get under their skin- one was so oblivious he didn't notice, and the other was a shameless smartass that probably would have gotten along great with Eris and Valerie back home. (Sure, her deadpan snark is annoying here, but that doesn't mean I don't have the tiniest bit of respect for her. Even if her attitude makes me want to snap her scrawny neck.)

"The girl from Twelve looks like a real loose cannon," Cassidy says. "Get her riled up, and she'll definitely have an enjoyable reaction. As for boys, maybe the kid from Eight. He looked lost in there yesterday, he definitely appears to be a pushover."

Okay then. "What about the pair from Nine? No one's really targeted them yet."

"Not really a smart idea," Cassidy replies. "The victor from last year is basically mentoring them both, so they already know exactly how to get you bored and wanting to move on."

"Well, I'll try to hit them both today," I say. When Cassidy frowns, I add, "Not literally!"

"There you go," she says. "Let's go eat breakfast."

Once I follow Cassidy to the dining room, I notice that while Godric's door is wide open, Crag's is closed tight. I can still hear his snoring through the door, though- it's just that loud.

"He never gets up before nine o'clock anymore," Cassidy says. "Sure, I'm all for him getting his beauty sleep, but it's annoying as hell when we have tributes to mentor."

That's the last words she says as the four of us- me, Cassidy, Godric, and Champagne- bolt down a hurried breakfast, most of which I don't remember. In what feels like no time at all but must be at least half an hour, the same voice from yesterday is blaring over the intercom, saying, "Tributes, you have ten minutes to report to the second day of training. That is all."

In what feels like nothing more than a blur, we're crammed in the hallway, waiting for the doors to open so that we can get back to preparing once more. I try to find a spot by the other Careers, who all stand tall and proud together. The outliers leave them plenty of space, meaning that once I break from the crowd it's easy to stay with them.

"Hey," I say once I've come to a stop. "What's the plan for today?"

"Easy," Clara says. "Same as yesterday. Brush up on or skills, terrify outliers without even trying, and compete to see who becomes the pack leader."

I smile. "Now _that_ sounds like a great plan."

Godric, Sienna, and Nascar don't exactly look thrilled with what's to come, but Clara manages to calm them down with a simple, "We can train separately if you guys want. We only need to stay as a pack for a few hours."

"Makes sense," Godric says. Sienna starts to say something, but it gets drowned out by the creaking of the massive doors swinging open.

All five of us stride with purpose to the door, and then I'm ready to prove that yes, I can win these games.

"Don't worry, girl," I say to myself. "You've got this. Time to go kick some butt."

Just like that, the second day has begun.

* * *

 **Odysea Davos, District Eleven Female**

* * *

I think it's safe to say that Thomiah and I both zoned out during Cutter's second-day speech.

Chances are, nothing super-important was in it, anyway. And we still have a lot of ground to cover if we want to be ready by the time these Games are thrust upon us.

Thus, the second that Cutter finishes talking, all of us fan out across the room, rushing to beat everyone else to whatever the hell they're going to do. As for the two of us, we decided the night before that today would be better spent getting practice with combat. Thomiah and I both get sickles and move towards some training dummies on racks.

A helpful diagram right next to the rightmost one shows an image of a gender-neutral, faceless person with a series of red lines across their body- I'm assuming those are the best ways to stab someone if you want the stab to be fatal. Some are obvious- the heart, the brain, the stomach- while others are less so.

For about the next half hour, we practice slicing up the dummies using the methods shown in the diagram. It's hard, heavy work- while Thomiah swings his sickle around with relative ease, I'm struggling to lift the thing up to reach a fatal point after only a few "kills." After about a dozen more, Thomiah barely seems any worse off than when he first started, but my arms feel like they're about to snap at the shoulder, so I wind up collapsing on the floor, panting, as Thomiah looks on.

"Are you okay?"

I look up just so he knows I didn't pass out or something stupid. "Fine… just tired and not very good at this."

"I thought you were a field worker. Wouldn't you be used to handling sickles?"

"Not really," I reply. "I really wasn't involved with much of the grunt work. I wound up handling all the weird little things that cropped up whenever we weren't picking crops. Clearing out poison ivy, chasing animals out of the crop fields, cleaning stuff up whenever there was a really bad thunderstorm coming, stuff like that."

"Good to know," Thomiah says. "I'm not a weapons expert or anything- we should probably ask one of the trainers about this first- but you might want to just stick with knives. Lighter weapons tend to be easier to handle."

"Sounds like a plan," I say, and then head back to the weapons rack, exchanging the sickle for a much lighter knife. Then, I hustle to the water cooler, drink two cups of the most refreshing ice water I've ever had, I rejoin Thomiah back with the dummies.

For another fifteen minutes or so, we get back to work, and suddenly the job becomes much easier. Sure, the knife has a bit of a harder time cutting through the burlap monstrosities posing as human models, but I'm swinging it so much faster that the disadvantages of knives over sickles are almost negated.

After all that, we're exhausted and beyond sweaty. I've drunk plenty of water, so I just stagger to a bench to sit for a minute, but Thomiah goes to the water cooler to get something to drink. I take a quick look around, just to make sure I don't get ambushed by the entire Career pack while Thomiah isn't here to help, but all I can see from here is one of the bigger outliers- the boy from Seven, I think- going to town on a dummy with a freaky-looking, double-headed axe.

Thomiah comes back soon enough, looking slightly less exhausted. "It might just be me here," he says, "but I don't think we can do this all day. Maybe we should mix some more mundane stations into weapons training?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I say. "So, where should we go first? Swimming training? Cooking? Climbing wall? I'm not picky."

Thomiah glances around the room for a short while, but eventually, his gaze settles on the fitness section of the arena. Even though it's inhabited by a boy who definitely looks like a Career, he seems to be focused far more on himself than anybody else- as he bench-presses truly mind-boggling amounts of weight, two other kids throw some kind of ball underhanded, back and forth. That looks pretty easy to me, but the kids doing it have an expression on their faces with so much pain, I'm surprised they haven't had a vein burst yet or something.

"Ally scouting?" It's an obvious question, but his answer is a bit out of the ordinary.

"Of course," he says. "In fact, I think we could start up the anti-Career pack this year."

Well, that was unexpected. Ever since I got here, I never saw myself as anti-Career material. The past few packs like that have all been a few super-serious kids with reasonably useful talents and little enough to lose that they were willing to challenge the Careers themselves. Sure, sponsor money is suddenly much less of a luxury than it was before, but now every single Career wants their heads on a pike.

The last anti-Career to win, funnily enough, is Cordelia, so I make a mental note to ask her some questions once I get back, if she hasn't already gone to bed. Every year since hers (The Eighty-Seventh Games, for those who care) the anti-Career pack had been wiped out before the Games were over, due to a combination of bad luck, a stretch of overly strong Careers, and just some lackluster packs in general.

If we do this, will we be one of those packs? I really hope not.

"Let's go," Thomiah says. "I've got my top targets picked out already. The longer we wait to ask, the higher the likelihood they'll have already formed another alliance."

He strides purposefully over towards the fitness area. I stick behind him, weaving around dummies and weapons and even a Career girl in the midst of hacking a dummy to bits with a machete. Thankfully, she doesn't pay us any attention as we pass.

It only takes a second to decide that I'll let him do most of the talking. Considering he is orders of magnitude more charismatic than I could ever hope to be, if he can't get them into this alliance, I doubt I could.

And just like that, we're trying to look perfectly nonchalant when what might be the most important event in our lives will occur any second.

* * *

 **Faolan Drover, District Ten Male**

* * *

It might just be me, but the exercise area seems ludicrously crowded, at least by training room standards.

The boy from Two continues to lift weights with ease that I had difficulty even picking up yesterday. The girl from Eight jogs laps around the track, occasionally appearing in my field of vision before vanishing again. The boy from Three is trying out some sort of contraption that's supposedly meant to improve your upper-body strength but looks more like a torture device. Finally, we're joined by the pair from Eleven, both of them slightly out of breath, as they stumble towards some other machine.

After a few minutes, I can tell they're eyeing me up. At least they're attempting to have some subtlety, but it really isn't working.

Fifteen minutes more of this, I decide to just end it myself before this ventures into "creepy" territory. So, I say, in their general direction, "Okay, I wonder if someone wants to ask me something."

The two of them come out of their hiding spots to get closer to me, the boy taking the lead. "Hello," he says. "Thomiah Marshall, District Eleven. Pleasure to meet you."

"Faolan Drover, District Ten," I reply. "Nice to meet you too."

The girl stays in the background. Artesia, having set down the heavy ball, does the same.

"Look," the boy says. "I know that usually there's a lot of awkward side conversation where everyone dances around the point until they finally ask whether they want to ally, but I'm going to keep things brief. We're trying to form the anti-Career pack this year. Are you two interested?"

Well, to make that decision, all I do is answer two quick questions.

Could I work without allies? Definitely.

 _Should_ I work without allies? Definitely not.

Well, that was easy. "I'm more than happy to join you two, especially since there hasn't been a real anti-Career pack in four Games. I'll see if Artesia…". I trail off as Artesia comes into view, nodding so fast that it gives the impression that her head is on a spring.

"And then there were four," Thomiah says. "Do you want to try and recruit anyone else?"

"Four's enough," I say. "Tractor subjected me to a Games marathon the past two days, and most of the anti-Career packs were four kids or less. More kids means more power, but it also increases the likelihood that one of them turns traitor."

"Understandable," Thomiah says. "So, you two both from Ten?"

I nod, and Artesia follows.

"One last thing," he adds. "I know we're the anti-Career pack now, but do you want to have another name? Maybe just to stand out a little?"

In all honesty, I could really care less. Being anti-Careers in the first place is enough of a novelty that we'll be interesting regardless. "I don't know. Not the Careers, obviously, but there's got to be something we'll all be fine with."

Thomiah's District partner- I know her name starts with O, but I can't remember it right now- speaks up for the first time. "You want us to be known as 'Not the Careers?'"

I start to say that that's not what I meant, but Thomiah beats me to the punch. "Odysea, call me crazy, but 'Not the Careers' doesn't sound too terrible, even if just 'anti-Careers' is fine. Sure, there have to be better names out there, but I don't have any prepared. Anyone else have ideas?"

Silence. Coupled with some awkward staring. We couldn't have had a better representation of how much we actually know each other if we tried.

"How about we just go by 'anti-Careers' for now, and if we come up with a better name, we'll use it," Thomiah says. The rest of us just nod in agreement. "So, are we going to be a pack or what?"

Thomiah's partner- wait, _Odysea_ \- nods. Artesia smiles. I do the same.

"Well," he says, "let's vote on a station to go to next. Any preferences?"

Artesia and Odysea ring in with their respective suggestions, but they get drowned out by a dual wave of ecstasy and anxiety. The ecstasy from becoming part of probably _the_ most powerful non-Career alliance, and the anxiety from rocketing to the top of the Careers' hit list. Unless a miracle breaks in our favor, we'll have to kill them before they can do the same to us.

And based on the Games that Tractor had me watch, doing that is going to be the most challenging thing I've ever done.

* * *

 **Zari Morelett, District Six Female**

* * *

I know being in an alliance is crucial, but I just don't know who I'd fit with.

The pair from Five looks mismatched at best, and all I'd probably do is screw up whatever their plan was. The kids from Nine are definitely close friends or at least know each other, based on how much they're talking, so I probably wouldn't work with them either. I'm not enough of a threat that the anti-Career alliance would want me, and the Careers? Even if I was talented enough to join them, I'm not sure how I could stand them. Even though they all appear to have a similar mindset, they can barely stand each other- throw me into the mix and everything would just fall apart.

A couple of other alliances have already formed, from what I can tell- besides the Careers and anti-Careers, the kids from Five are sticking together, as are the kids from Nine. I could theoretically try to do the same, but Remi has proven himself to be a double whammy of annoying _and_ incompetent over the few days I've known him. Keeping him around would be the death of me, despite how much I tend to like kids in his age range.

The weapons station might as well be off-limits given how many Careers are currently training there, and I don't have any idea how to operate most of the machines in the exercise area. Thus, for my next station, I decide to do some runs on the obstacle course.

I'm not alone once I get there. At the starting line, the girl from Seven is stretching like she's almost bored with the events transpiring around her. While she does that, I scan the course. It's nothing too challenging or intense- hurdles, ducking through a crawl space for a stretch, climbing over several increasingly-high barriers, and then crossing a very narrow balance beam.

"Hey," the girl says when she finishes stretching. "Wanna race?"

"Eh, no reason not to," I say. "Zari Morelett, District Six."

"Alexa Dobio, District Seven," she replies. "Ready to see who's the queen of the obstacle course?"

"I believe that would be me."

When we turn around in unison to find the source of the new voice, we both swallow hard. Apparently, the girl from One has taken time out of her training schedule to scare the crap out of us. She looks intimidating enough with her all-black attire and piercing eyes, but the creepy smirk really ups her "terrifying" attribute.

"Clara Ridley, District One," she says. "If you think you can beat me, you've got another thing coming."

I start to sign towards Alexa asking what we should do, but I stop about three words in. She's not from home. I didn't know her before today. She probably hasn't learned sign language and I'm just making myself look like a moron. So instead, I whisper the question. "What do we do?"

She doesn't respond. Instead, she calls out, "Hey, can someone just say 'Go' in, like, ten seconds? This Clara chick is trying to prove she's better than us, so we're going to race on the obstacle course."

Someone else, presumably a trainer, yells, "Will do. Ready… set…"

As soon as we hear him scream "Go!" we're flat-out sprinting for the hurdles. I start falling behind, Clara keeping just in front of Alexa while Alexa widens the gap between her and me. Then come the hurdles. Clara and Alexa both fly over them like they've been training for this all their lives. Of course, in Clara's case, it's true…

By the time I've gotten past the hurdles, Clara and Alexa are army-crawling through the narrow space. Clara moves fast, but Alexa's so much smaller that she has a bit of an advantage here. Before they finish, I throw myself under my own crawl space and start worming my way forward.

Once I'm able to stand up again, Clara and Alexa are practically throwing themselves over the barriers. Clara has a massive height advantage here, and to a lesser extent, I do. As I scale the first wall, Clara hurls herself over the final one, and once I summit the second wall, Alexa's followed Clara to the balance beam.

The beam is arguably the hardest obstacle, since it's maybe a foot wide at the start and shrinks to tightrope-width by the end that's suspended above a pit (thankfully, it's filled with foam bricks, meaning that even if you fall, you should be fine unless you land on your face). Clara's inching forward across the thing, while Alexa's making a move to try and pass her, gaining fast. Having already realized there's no shot of me winning, now I'm focusing less on what I'm doing and more on who wins this thing.

The two of them are neck and neck now, with less than half the balance beam to go, as I take my first step onto it. It's gonna be close.

Then Clara comes to a dead stop. Alexa keeps moving forward, but I stop too, not quite sure what to make of this.

At least, until Clara pulls her leg back and kicks Alexa in the shin.

She shrieks and wobbles briefly, but somehow keeps her balance. However, the distraction is enough for Clara to pass her, snickering as she does. I see red for a split second and pick up the pace once more, but I can't do anything to fix this.

Alexa, however, growls, "So that's how it's going to be?" Then, as she nears Clara again, she returns the favor by sharply poking her in the side, snarling, "Two can play that game, missy!". Clara almost tumbles off the beam as well, but somehow stays up there, although Alexa gains the lead once more, moving way faster than I'd ever dare across the narrowest part of the balance beam.

Alexa leaps off the beam a second before Clara, and now it's just a mad dash to the wall. One that I intend to see…

But then I miss a step. Flailing my arms around fruitlessly to try and regain my balance, I topple off the side, luckily missing the other beams as I fall. (Sure, the beams are fairly flexible so you don't get a concussion if you hit them, but that doesn't mean that it isn't painful), landing in the foam blocks below.

I can't see who wins. However, I do hear Alexa yelling "Ding ding ding!", which is immediately followed by Clara spewing a string of nasty curse words- or at least words I _think_ are nasty curse words, given that I've never heard anyone use them before.

"Uh, hello?" I'm calling up, hoping _someone_ can hear me. "How do I get out of here?"

Unfortunately, neither Clara nor Alexa are paying attention to me. Clara's loudly accusing Alexa of cheating, while Alexa's yelling back, and I quote, "if you can't take it, don't dish it!"

Oh, great. As much as Alexa's accusations are justified, all they're going to do is get her killed. The Careers don't have a ton of power in the Training Room, but once we leave, there's no holds barred.

Soon, their argument either stops or gets too far away for me to hear, leaving me alone in this pit. Seriously, though, how am I supposed to climb back up?

Eventually (and I do mean eventually) my calls for help and repeated asks of "How do I get out of here?" get answered, as a retractable ladder drops from somewhere, allowing me to climb back out.

I'm going to have to push what just happened to the back of my mind- the last thing I need is to waste any more time.

However, forgetting Alexa is not going to be a simple task.

* * *

 **Alliance Tracker:**

-From now on, I'm going to give you an updated alliance list with each chapter relevant to training or the Arena. It's listed below:

 **Alliances:**

 **Careers:** Nascar, Clara, Godric, Galadia, Sienna

 **Anti-Careers:** Faolan, Artesia, Thomiah, Odysea

 **Opposites Attract:** Spark, Catarina

 **One-Way Romance:** Marius, Toren

 **Unaligned (for now):** Rhaemyr, Sotia, Vick, Remi, Zari, Aryion, Alexa, Romeo, Lacey, Maxxer, Fox

* * *

 **Other Notes:**

-Hopefully, you enjoyed this, and I'll see you next chapter!


	35. Training 2-B: A Room Full of Crazies

**Chapter Thirty-Four: A Room Full of Crazies**

* * *

 **Still Training Day Two**

* * *

 **Alexa Dobio, District Seven Female**

* * *

Time for another meal full of unfamiliar food.

This time, everyone's waiting in line to take something triangular, bready, and dripping with grease out of a cardboard box. The Careers all take at least two pieces, but most others either take one or don't touch it. I consider skipping lunch, my stomach is bouncing around so much, but my nostrils get possessed by the scent this thing emits. Before I know it, I've grabbed two pieces and plopped down as far away from the Careers as possible.

Besides the Careers and anti-Careers being clustered at two tables- which are right next to each other for some inexplicable reason- most of the tables have two occupants, maximum. Some nibble on whatever this is, some devour it, others sit silently with empty plates in front of them.

"Hope you're enjoying the pizza," a trainer calls from across the room. "The Gamemakers practically live off this stuff if they need to pull an all-nighter to fix something."

Well, that settles it. I'm _never_ going to adopt the Capitol diet, even if I win. As good as this smells- and as soon as I take the first bite, I realize that it tastes even better- I'd wind up weighing about three hundred pounds in a hurry. _Especially_ since I don't trust their surgical techniques, and never want to touch the shot glasses full of that liquid that makes you puke for as long as I live.

I'm halfway through the first piece when I notice that most of the kids with empty plates- and a few who still have some of this pizza thing- are pacing around the tables nervously, most of them trying to make as little eye contact with others as possible. I'm not sure what their deal is- do they want allies? Is it just nerves? Maybe their stomachs can't handle this stuff and they won't even need vomiting tonic to throw up?

Then, one of them comes to a stop at my table- a petite girl with icy blue eyes and an explosion of inky black hair.

"Hey," she says to me. "Mind if I sit here?"

I can't help but smirk. "Do I look like I care?"

"Well, that settles that, then," she says as she puts her pizza on the table before taking her seat.

For a few minutes, that seems like it might be the entirety of our conversation, as both of us attack our pizza until it's gone, grease staining our faces with a slick, shiny sheen. That changes once the girl stands up, brushes the crumbs off her training outfit, and extends a slippery hand across the table. "Lacey Loveless, District Eight."

"Nice to meet you," I say, shaking her hand. "Alexa Dobio, District Seven."

"You know, I really like your attitude," Lacey says. "I think it'll really help you stand out once interviews roll around."

"I know," I respond, "but now all the Careers probably hate me for humiliating one of their members. So, I'm not sure whether I should back off in that department."

"Well," Lacey responds, "you've probably passed the point of no return already. Might as well make the most of it." She pauses, trying to clean off her face.

Okay, then. "I understand your point, but why should I take advice from you?"

Lacey laughs for a second, a quick, insincere noise. "Because I want to ally with you, duh! You're not totally cowed by Careers like most of the outliers are, and I think that you could make an excellent fighter, given some training. And I think I can help you with that."

I'm not sure how to answer that. Lacey is even shorter than I am, and I'm not what you'd call oversized, even for thirteen. Not to mention, it's nice to be fearless and all when looking for allies, but I can't help but wonder if she's just going to hold me back. In the end, I decide to try it out for a little while and then put everything that happens under further review for later.

"I'm willing to do a little trial run," I say, "but I don't want to get too attached just yet."

Lacey smiles a crooked half-smile upon hearing that. "Don't worry, it'll be a good decision. Trust me."

Well, I have to test her for a bit, and _then_ I can trust her. But for now, we might as well be strangers- and everything she says or does might be leading me into a death trap.

My train of thought gets derailed as Cutter, just like he did yesterday, yells, "Lunchtime's over, tributes!" However, this time he follows that up with "your time here is more than halfway finished! Make sure you get to everything that you want to do soon!"

I stand up, feeling whatever this pizza is made of tossing about in my stomach. Lacey looks like nothing's bothering her, but she's probably just done an effective masking job of her emotions. Much better than me, at least.

"Come on," she says as she leaves the table. "Are we sticking together or what?"

"Coming, coming," I say, breaking into an unsteady jog to get to her side before slowing down once more.

Well, time's running short. Hopefully, this alliance doesn't work out the way I think it will, because if that happens, I'm basically out of options.

As the second half of the day starts, all I can do is cross my fingers and see if Lacey and I are compatible with each other. Chances are, we're really not.

But still, nothing bad ever came from hoping for the best, right?

* * *

 **Fox Angel, District Twelve Female**

* * *

I hate every single person here.

The Careers I hate because they're nothing more than a group of people the Capitol uses for Hunger Games purposes, and all of them are damn full of themselves. The outliers I hate because they're weak enough to be scared by these posers that think they're being threatening. The trainers I hate because all of them have been useless thus far, and the Gamemakers I hate because- do I even need to justify that? They're going to do everything in their power to kill me over the next few weeks!

Right now, I'm taking my anger out on a dummy. Stabbing it until its imaginary death, over and over and over again, until it's nothing more than a heap of stuffing and poorly-stitched fabric. Not wanting to see an Avox for as long as I live if I can help it, I shove all the pieces of the dummy to the side before looking at the other stations to decide where I should go next.

Maybe more combat. Screw survival- the Gamemakers probably hate me at this point, and considering I'm here in the first place (despite me being pretty confident I was never registered by the District), the only way I'm going to get back here alive is if I entertain the audience with some kills. And last I checked, watching someone sit around for half an hour waiting for water to purify isn't that enjoyable.

The knife I'm using looks pretty beat-up, so I decide to go exchange it for two more that will cut through things more easily. I refuse to be worse off in combat because my weapon sucks.

Snaking my way through the racks and racks of weapons, I finally come across the knives, which there are by far the most of. Even though I can count fairly high (my math skills outside of basic math are limited, but that's beside the point), I know I wouldn't be able to tally how many there are.

Unfortunately, once I pick two sharp-looking ones with slightly curved blades, I run into a roadblock. Or two roadblocks, for that matter. Namely, the girls from One and Two.

Both of them carry heavy, brutal weapons, but I'm not worried. The second they put a finger on me here, the trainers will be forced to break it up. Sure, that applies to me as well, but that's not really going to be a problem- I've seen these two in action before, and most of the time, they've barely even annoyed their targets. I doubt I'll be any different.

"Awwww, you look so _cute_ when you think you're a threat," the girl from One starts off.

"Maybe you should go for the camouflage station! I mean, that looks more your speed," the girl from Two adds.

I say nothing in response. If they don't think I'm going to be a problem, so be it. They don't need to know anything about me until they have a knife in their throat.

"I mean, you don't need to worry about what station to go to," the girl from One says. "I mean, you'll be dead soon anyway! I mean, look at you. You don't even have the nerve to say something back to us!"

Could she be any more obvious? She's trying to bait me into a trap. Well, I'm not biting.

"Well, look at her, Clara!" The girl from two is holding in laughter. "She doesn't look like the spunky type. What does her outfit even say other than-" she pitches her voice up ridiculously high for this part- "Please don't hurt me! I'm young and innocent and I have a cat to get home to!"

Okay, _now_ she's pushing my buttons. The only thing keeping me from snapping is the one rational part of my brain telling me not to fall to her level. I refuse to let these posers break me.

The other girl- Clara, I'm assuming- runs her hand through her hair for a second before speaking again. "Come on, Galadia, let's get back to training. I don't care what your mentor said about her, she's not reacting at all."

Galadia shrugs. "Okay. It's not like she has much riding on this anyway. She comes from Twelve! Her parents are probably happy she's gone because there's one less mouth to feed."

It takes a second for that to sink in. But as soon as it does, my face flushes, my fists and teeth both clench, and it takes everything in my power to not take my knives and cut this girl's face wide open.

"What the fuck did you say?"

Galadia laughs. "Oh, that your parents are better off now that you're gone."

Words cannot describe all the things I want to do to this girl. She isn't even worthy of death- just endless, horrible pain for the rest of her miserable life. But as much as I want to make this girl pay, I can't do a damn thing.

Here, at least, the trainers all have the goal of making sure the same number of children that entered this place leave it. I'd get stopped before the knife came close.

"You'll regret that, bitch," I say. "You should _not_ have said that. I might have to take your shit in here because everyone else is watching. But once the time comes, I am fucking gunning for you. And you'll have earned every. Last. Second of what I do to you."

Galadia just laughs. "You're so cute! You think I take you seriously! Oh, please, cut your crap. I could slice you up like a dummy any day of the week. Feel free to try, though!" Then, she turns to face Clara. "I believe our work here is done, Clara. Want to carve up some more dummies?"

Clara snickers. "Is that even a question?" Then, both of them walk off, laughing all the way to the next station.

I didn't care too much about what they thought about me. Them seeing me as a non-factor only helped my chances of survival. And I've been the subject of quite a few verbal bashings before, so I can handle them by now for the most part.

But insulting my parents? _That's_ where I draw the line. I don't care who you are or what you've done it for, I will make you fucking pay.

I know I don't really have a chance at victory, but there's one thing I want to guarantee, no matter the cost. Both of those girls will die. By my hand.

And I don't care if I have to play dirty to do it.

* * *

 **Nascar Galluci, District One Male**

* * *

Clara is _really_ starting to get on my nerves.

I haven't seen much of either her or Galadia since training started, and I doubt it's because they left the room. This whole angle where they try to do almost nothing except make the outliers frightened of them is starting to grate, and I know I'm not the only one of us who's thinking that way. Godric hasn't said a word to Galadia since this morning, while Sienna's been trying to keep us from turning into the pack from last year, but isn't doing an especially great job.

For now, I'm the only tribute here. I won't let anything break my focus. It's time to practice some sword skills.

Luckily for me, a trainer is more than happy to clear some space so that we can have a duel, so long as we use the rubber-coated swords placed there specifically for that purpose. The weight difference isn't all that much from the real deal, and you also don't have to worry about accidentally murdering anyone.

This trainer is actually pretty good, even by their standards, and once we charge at each other I find myself hard-pressed to avoid being hit. He's the combination of both big and fast that everyone back at the academy wanted to be, and his sword skills are nothing to sneeze at. Even though I have two swords on hand, as opposed to one, he's pressing me back, not the other way around.

However, the one advantage a smaller frame has given me is that I don't tire out nearly as quickly as this guy does. Soon, his strikes lose force, his arms shake, his form weakens. Within the space of a few seconds, I've gone from desperately fending off defeat to surging towards victory.

And then, with one final push, I knock the sword out of his hand. It goes flying for a few seconds before landing somewhere amongst the numerous racks of weapons. With that, the trainer puts his hands up in surrender, saying, "Well played." Then, he walks off, presumably to get some water and prepare for his next fight, if it ever comes up.

Despite everything else having gone wrong so far, I smile. I don't know what I was thinking that I wasn't good enough to win, although that might have just been the pre-Reaping jitters getting to me. If I could take on that guy, I can take on anything.

I turn around to go get some water myself and see Godric waiting behind me, probably to fight against the trainer himself. "Nice work, Nascar."

"Thanks," I reply. "I really needed a confidence booster."

"Well, so do I," Godric added. "Although, some of that's just because I want to know if I'll be able to survive if our pack implodes on itself."

"Hate to be a downer here," I say, "but that's probably going to be a _when_ , not an _if_. Let's be honest here, I don't think either of us cares for Clara or Galadia."

Godric hesitates for a second, but then he nods. "Thankfully, they're not around right now, so I can say what I think. The training footage is confidential, right?"

"I haven't seen any, so I'll assume yes," I respond.

"Good," Godric says. "Galadia might be the most insufferable person I've ever met, and Clara, well… I know she's on our side and all, but she kind of freaks me out. Maybe it's the eyes or something, but she just makes me really uncomfortable."

"Nice, I'm not the only one," I say. "At least now I know I'm probably not going crazy."

"Probably?"

I snicker a little. "Who the hell knows at this point? For all I know, everything she's doing is rubbing off on me."

Godric's smile suddenly vanishes. "Yeah, I really hope Galadia doesn't rub off on me. For all I know, it's just turning me into a carbon copy of my dad. And that's just about the last thing I want here."

"Well, same here, unfortunately," I say. "If I turned into my dad, let's just say our pack would turn out like one of those awful romantic comedies they show every winter. And I'm sure as hell nobody would want that."

Unfortunately for me, Godric doesn't appear to be listening anymore- he's picked up a sword of his own, prepared to duke it out with the trainer just like I did. As the replacement of whoever fought me steps out- Cutter, to my surprise- Godric steps into the ring. "Wish me luck. It looks like I'll need it."

"Good luck with your fight," I say, before walking away in an arbitrary direction.

Well, that got super heavy, super fast. However, that's the closest thing to an actual conversation I've had with _any_ of the Careers, including Clara, so something tells me we might end up sticking together.

I mean, it has to be better than what would happen if I stuck with Clara, right?

* * *

 **Catarina Lynn, District Five Female**

* * *

In less than three days, I've turned back into a mother again.

Spark may be a little less likely to burn himself on a hot stove than any of my siblings, but the competency ends there. I get that going into a literal death match is really stressful. I understand that being sized up by people who have trained all their lives to kill kids like you is terrifying. But if you want to be seen as having even a shred of a chance, you need to stay calm, stay focused, and not let anything get to you. So far, I've been trying hard to achieve all three, but Spark is struggling on all accounts so far.

We've returned to the Trap Pit for the last time today, and Spark is absent-mindedly switching between building some sort of trap centered around sharp objects, staring at the vicious fight going on between the boy from Two and a trainer, and just fiddling with parts for no particular reason. And his trap is so oddly put together that I'm seriously wondering whether he started building a toaster by mistake.

"Uh, I think you're missing some of the sharp parts," I say. "Spikes or whatever they call them here."

"Got it, I'll add some," he mumbles in my general direction before picking up seven or eight and beginning to nail them down in spots that almost look random.

Around us, everyone's wrapping up. The girl from Seven drops off the climbing wall. Both the kids from Ten exit their simulated scenario and begin to head for the door. The boy from Twelve crawls out of his makeshift shelter. Meanwhile, Spark's still trying to cobble something together before time runs out.

The trickle of people has turned into a full-blown stream by the time Spark finishes. We both drag a dummy over to the motion simulator and start the rickety old thing up. With a horrible screech, the mass of burlap posing as a human gets dragged towards the trap, and we get our hopes up that finally, this trap will be the one that proves our worth.

To Spark's credit, it does spring this time as soon as the dummy's "leg" brushes it. It'd be a great trap... if it actually did a damn thing. The dummy goes right through the trap, but it emerges without a scratch. Before we have time to try and fix the trap for another run, we're being called to the center of the Training Room by Cutter.

"Come on, Spark, we have to go," I say. Thankfully, Spark can comprehend it this time, putting down the tools he was using in a somewhat orderly manner before staggering alongside me to the center of the room, where everyone else has already clumped together in something vaguely resembling a circle, Cutter right in the center.

Once we arrive, Cutter launches into his speech. "To those of you standing here today, congratulations. You've made it through the first two days of training. Technically, you have a day left, but since we're breaking at lunch for private sessions, it's really a half day. So, you only have four hours tomorrow. Make the most of it. Cover anything you've always wanted to try. Get ready for your private sessions. Make some new friends. It doesn't matter how you spend it, but it'd be to your benefit to use them as best as possible. That's all from me. Head back to your floors, enjoy your dinner, and all that other good stuff."

Most of the others are wrapped up in a mad dash to be the first ones into the elevators. However, the two of us hang back, not particularly worried when we're getting back up.

"Catarina," Spark says, "Now I'm really worried that no one's going to sponsor us."

"Relax," I say, but I'm not sure how close that is to making an empty statement. Sure, Spark's become helpful less and less the closer we draw to the Bloodbath, but it's not like I've been much better. Unless we get really, really lucky, we're headed straight for the territory of below-average, and even being an alliance won't get us too far with sponsors after that.

"We'll just have to keep it together for a fifteen-minute private session," I say. "If you can do that, we'll get enough sponsors to keep us going, at least. It's not like I'm predicting top-of-the-line scores for either of us."

"Well," Spark says, "In that case, what are you predicting that we get?"

"I'm shooting for a five," I say. "I know it's low, but I'm trying to be just a bit realistic. At least a five will show that I'm competent at something. Competent at _what_ , they won't know, but at least I won't be considered a lost cause."

Spark's eyes become a bit more focused again. "And me?"

"If you keep your cool," I say, "I could totally see you getting a six or even a seven. I mean, you're three times my size, you can't get that way without some kind of muscle strength. Even if you just carry something heavy around the room, that has to be a good sign for some of the Gamemakers."

In a move I've been seeing less and less frequently, Spark manages to smile. "Wow. I didn't know you thought that highly of me."

"Some of it's that," I respond, "but the rest comes from logic. I'm trying to be as realistic as possible here."

"Well, it's nice that your logic works that way," Spark says.

Just like that, the wait for the elevators has dissolved to virtually nothing. The boy and girl from Nine are the only kids still waiting as we move to the elevators. Once the doors open, we all step in, exhausted and hungry.

However, maybe what I did got to Spark. Maybe tomorrow, we'll manage to do something great and impress everyone. It's impossible to know for sure right now, obviously. (If it was, I'd have made a fortune already.)

Once we step back out of the elevator on our floor and leave the kids from Nine alone, the day has officially ended for us. Only one left to go.

Here's to hoping it's better than the first two.

* * *

 **Alliance Tracker:**

 **Careers:** Nascar, Clara, Godric, Galadia, Sienna

 **Anti-Careers:** Faolan, Artesia, Thomiah, Odysea

 **Opposites Attract:** Spark, Catarina

 **One-Way Romance:** Marius, Toren

 **The Tough Girls:** Alexa, Lacey

 **Unaligned (for now):** Rhaemyr, Sotia, Vick, Remi, Zari, Aryion, Romeo, Maxxer, Fox

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-Not much to say this time, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway. See you next chapter!


	36. Training 3-A: Moments of Weakness

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Moments of Weakness**

* * *

 **Training Day Three**

* * *

 **Godric Runestone, District Two Male**

* * *

The way this night's been going, I'm not going to get any sleep.

It's three in the morning, yet my mind's been racing at top speed since I got into bed four hours ago. Every time I've managed to almost drift off, something else has gotten in the way. The first time, it was when Crag went to bed and started snoring again. The second was when someone got up for some reason and tripped.

This time, it's because something's banging around upstairs. I have no idea what kind of projects have requirements involving them being done at this hour, but it's not like I can stop them. It's probably best for me if I just ignore it, anyway.

The noise keeps up for a few minutes, but then everything goes blissfully silent after one final thud. I start to drift off once more and almost get there this time.

That's before something hits the ground. Suddenly, that something… swears under its breath? Okay, now I'm getting a bit unsettled, but it's probably just Galadia or one of our mentors going to the bathroom. Nothing to be worried about.

A few more seconds pass. Then, Galadia screams.

It's not a battle cry or any sort of dignified noise. Just a sound of fear I never thought I'd hear come from her. In an instant, I'm awake and throwing on the shorts I tossed by my bedside. Sure, I might not like Galadia, but she's still from home. She's proven herself as at least somewhat tough if nothing else, so I doubt it's just an insect or something that's making her scream like that.

Suddenly, there's a loud crash, and a voice I don't recognize yells, "FUCK YOU!"

As I sprint into Galadia's room, arriving on a scene that's somehow both horrific and ridiculous at the same time. Galadia has leapt out of bed, wielding what appears to be a broken lamp, parts of it scattered across the bed. Standing in between me and her is what appears to be an Avox, wearing a uniform that hangs loosely around them. It's clearly a woman because her reddish hair is tied back in a braid, but that doesn't stop her from brandishing two knives with confidence and poise. And based on how aggressively she's advancing, whoever this is wants Galadia dead.

Galadia blocks the next attack with the lamp and swings it at the Avox's face, but she ducks out of the way, taking a step towards me. Galadia moves forward, but now the Avox is focused on me. With a snarl of fury, she swings at me, but I manage to sidestep, just barely. She winds up for another attack, but by now, Cassidy's woken up from all the commotion and come to investigate, making it three against one. At this point, the Avox is getting desperate. In an instant, she winds up and hurls her knife at Cassidy.

Unfortunately for Cassidy, the Avox's aim is pretty good. The knife doesn't land anywhere lethal since Cassidy shields herself, but it instead embeds itself in her forearm. She yanks it out and follows that up with a plethora of curse words. The Avox doesn't pause for a second, though. She charges Galadia with her remaining knife, screaming, "DIE, BITCH!"

Galadia doesn't respond to that with words. Instead, she swings the shattered lamp towards her head with all the force she can muster.

Lucky for Galadia, it's a direct hit. With a nasty crunching noise, the Avox wobbles for a brief second before dropping her knife and face-planting on the ground. We wait for her to get up, but after about fifteen seconds, it becomes pretty clear that she's down for the count.

Crag, with the worst timing imaginable, stumbles into the room, yawning. "You guys woke me up. Did I miss anything?"

"That. You missed that," says Cassidy, pointing at the Avox. Crag wanders over to get a good look but then leaves the room without another word, presumably to go back to sleep.

"Well, that was weird," I say. "I know there's probably plenty of Avoxes who aren't happy with their position, but even if that was the case, why target Galadia? Aren't there a ton of other people who hold way more of the blame in that category?"

"I'm… I'm not sure," Cassidy says between ragged breaths. "Convenience?"

Speaking of convenience, the intercom comes to life at that very moment, and the room is soon filled with the voice of a sleep-deprived woman.

"Sorry to wake you at this hour, guys," she says, "but have any of you seen where Fox went? I searched the entire floor top to bottom, plus the roof, and I still can't find her. Could you just tell me if you see her anywhere?"

Cassidy strides over to a machine that I've never seen used before and turns it on. I have no idea how that's supposed to help at first, but once she starts talking, it becomes pretty clear what this thing's supposed to do. "What does she look like? Because I think we might have found her."

"Short, red hair, really small," the woman says. "I have no idea what she wore to bed, so I can't describe that."

"Then this is her, Corinne," Cassidy says. "Also, she tried to murder my trainee, so I'm not sure what they're going to do with her, but I doubt she's just going back to bed like nothing happened."

Corinne groans. "This might shock you, but I'm not even that surprised. I always thought something was wrong with that girl. You feel like you can sort this out?"

"I got it," Cassidy says. "You just go to sleep, I'll handle this."

"Sure thing," Corinne says, and then the intercom goes dead.

Galadia's shaking from a combination of adrenaline and fear, but Cassidy barely pays any attention to that. "Okay. Now that _that's_ dealt with, why don't you get some sleep? You guys need to be well-rested for your private sessions. I'll make sure the girl is dealt with."

Based on the expression Galadia has, I doubt she's getting any more sleep tonight, however.

I probably wasn't going to get much anyway, but this confirmed that the number of minutes I sleep tonight will be zero. Especially when actual Peacekeepers enter the room, talking with Cassidy in what they think are hushed tones but I can hear through the closed door. Thankfully, their conversation concludes shortly, with someone saying, "We've got a place we can hold her until private sessions. Chances are, she won't be missing much."

As they exit the room, I'm left alone with nothing more than my thoughts to disturb me. However, something tells me they'll be enough to keep me awake until morning.

* * *

 **Aryion Hylus, District Seven Male**

* * *

Breakfast has been a rather quiet affair today.

Alexa's been inhaling everything in sight, but the rest of us are barely touching our plates. Ash still looks hungover from last night, and Mahogany never seems to eat, period. Finally, I'm wound up so tightly that I know whatever I put into my stomach is more than likely coming back out. And last I checked, vomiting isn't a skill the Gamemakers are looking for.

"So," Alexa says, "what are you doing for your private session, Aryion?"

I really need to figure out the answer to that question, especially since whatever I do there is the only thing the Gamemakers care about. Should I have figured this out by now? Yes. Am I nervous about my score? Also yes. Have I been known to make the best decisions (hence, why I'm here)? Of course not.

Once we've bolted down our meals, the two of us hustle to the elevator, making sure to make ourselves look halfway presentable before we get in. The announcement calling us down was a couple of minutes ago, so we need to move fast if we don't want to lose time.

Halfway to the training room, the elevator stops, and the kids from another District- Three, I think, since they're too small to be Careers- pile in with their mentor and crowd the elevator. After a few uncomfortable seconds of being packed in like sardines, the doors open to reveal the hallway we've grown familiar with over the past few days. It's empty this time, since the doors to the Training Room are both open, leaving us with plenty of space to fit in as Cutter finishes off his final speech.

"Just remember, you only have a half period today," he says. "After lunch, we'll hold private sessions for everyone. You'll each have fifteen minutes to prove your worth in them, and your scores will be revealed on live television at 9:00 tonight. Remember, everyone, what you do here counts. Your time starts now, make the most of it."

He strides away after that, leaving us to our own devices. The Careers all clump together, as usual, and I make sure to steer well clear of them on my way to the weapons rack. Half a dozen other tributes join me, each of us preparing for the worst to come. Just like yesterday, I grab two axes that feel right in my hands and then head over to the dummy station.

The same signs displaying the correct angles to slash people remain, although I don't really need them anymore. I've gotten enough practice that all of these slashes feel somewhat natural now.

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I get back into the groove of slicing these things to pieces. It's immensely satisfying watching something built like this fall apart by your own hand, I can say that. The only thing missing is that it feels a little too easy to be useful once the Games hit. Maybe I should try the scenarios or something.

All three rooms are full right now, so I'll have to wait for a few minutes. I'm fine with that, it gives me some time to figure out how I'm going to make this private session work. I already know I'm going to focus on axes, since that's really the only weapon I've practiced with, it's just a question of how I'm going to use said axes.

"Probably for cutting something," I say to myself. "Just a question if what I'm cutting is going to move or not."

I return to slicing up dummies for a few more minutes, but then one of the scenario doors opens, releasing Alexa and her new ally from Eight. Without hesitating for a second, I charge for the door before someone can take the spot, slipping in just as the door closes.

It then occurs to me that I have no idea what this session even is- well, that's the disadvantage of rushing straight for it. For a few seconds, it looks like nothing's going to happen, but then I hear the voices as lights turn on overhead.

"Hey, look," one of them says, clearly a guy. "We found another one. Time to up my kill count a little."

Another voice, this one female, replies, "Ones to the left, Twos to the right! It's four against one, let's not make any stupid mistakes!"

Well, crap. Clearly, they'd gone for the highest difficulty setting on 'Fighting Alliances.' If my attackers aren't supposed to be Careers, I have no idea what they are.

In seconds, I have four large orange silhouettes that are supposed to represent people rushing me. I leap backwards out of the way of the first one's strike and manage to block the second. However, I'm hopelessly overmatched- every second I'm in there, I'm losing ground, until I feel the wall at my back.

I make one last, desperate swing to fend them off before the boy in the front slashes my throat…

And then the lights power off, leaving new ones to bathe the room in a pale-blue hue. A new voice, this one not belonging to a Career, says, "Your endeavor was a failure. Please try to improve before you enter the arena."

Well, what does this thing think I was trying to do? Get worse as I went on?

The voice follows that up with, "Calculating percentile ranking… your attempt ranks in the 31st percentile. In case you do not know…"

"Don't know, don't care," I say to no one as I step back into the training room, letting the pair from Five take my place.

I think I should just stick to dummies or maybe a trainer at this point. I probably looked like an absolute fool in there, even if I must have done better than some people. However, I need something I'm good at for my private session.

If I look like an idiot in there, there's no coming back from that.

* * *

 **Toren Laris, District Nine Female**

* * *

I'm pretty confident by now that Marius is crushing on me, since he's been about as subtle about it as an ink stain on a wedding dress.

I've noticed him trying to initiate hand-holding quite a few times by now, and his attempts at starting a romantic conversation are so ludicrously over-the-top it feels like it belongs in one of those soap operas that are always on in the living room back at home. (Dad claims he hates them, but there's no way he does if it's playing almost 24/7.)

Funny enough, they played it in the Capitol, too. I tore up a little watching it the first time, just because it reminded me of home. Fortunately, both my escort and mentor thought I was crying about the show itself and not its subtext.

While he's been falling head over heels most of today, I'm trying to keep us somewhat in line. "So, Marius, do you have any stations you want to visit?"

"I'm indifferent," he says, "You pick."

"Okay then," I respond. "Looks like we're doing more survival stuff."

The two of us stick together closely, making sure to stay out of the way of the bigger tributes, especially since the group consisting of Districts 10 and 11 looks like a pretty solid threat. The last thing we need is to make more enemies that can (and probably will) kill us.

We stop at the edible-plants test. It's pretty simple, thankfully- it's a touchscreen that draws information from a database of every plant that has ever appeared in the Games before, and all we have to do is identify if it's safe to eat, mildly toxic (it usually can't kill you, but it'll wreak havoc on some part of your body) or very toxic (can kill you in a hurry if you're not careful). And if you're wondering how I know that, the screen itself tells you that the second you start a new test.

Marius lets me go first, as is to be expected. The first plant pops up on the screen, some beautiful purple flower I've never seen or heard of in my life. However, pretty and edible are usually detached from each other, so I guess _very toxic,_ which is (to my pleasant surprise) correct. The screen reads, "Foxgloves, also known as Dead Man's Bells. Do not eat under any circumstances."

Nineteen more plants follow, most of which I manage to get right, either by coincidence or just knowing what they are. Final score, sixteen out of twenty.

"Not bad," I say as I move and let Marius go. He doesn't fare quite as well. Sure, I don't think I would have done as well on that test either, considering it took a lot of far-flung plants I'd never seen before either, but I don't think I would have tanked quite as badly. He only manages to answer correctly about half the time, and he still takes about twice as long as I did to finish mine. His final score is only nine out of twenty.

"Oh well. Not every try's going to be a winner," he says, although he looks noticeably unsettled. If two days, plus an hour and a half (give or take) of training only got him there, he might as well have just wasted his time. At least I can say I picked up something from doing this.

"Let's just move on," I add. "Again, any preferences?"

"No, none at all," he says, although he starts trailing off a little at the end. "Take your pick."

I'm not sure what we even have left to do at this point (other than maybe try and take in someone else, but most of the people who I think could help us have either been taken already or declined to join an alliance), so I decide, just for the heck of it, to try a little experiment of sorts. Maybe it's kind of cruel, but we're going into the freaking Hunger Games in a few days. If I'm all he's got, he'll probably forgive me for this. "Why don't we build a shelter together? We haven't tried that yet, and if the arena's conditions are really bad, it could be super helpful."

"Okay," he says, nodding his head rapidly. With that, we move to the proper station, which (fortunately for us) is empty. However, a half-finished, probably abandoned shelter is already put up, so we decide to just add to that. It's a quick process, thankfully- add wood, make sure the roof is waterproofed, and then crawl in and hope we don't knock the thing over.

Once we're inside the darkened space, we're forced to bunch up together anyway so we can fit, but Marius makes it a whole lot closer than needed.

"This is amazing," he whispers.

"Let's hope," I say, hoping that he thinks it means one thing while I know it means another.

Before that goes on too long, though, we hear the sound of simulated rain hitting the shelter. It holds up fine for the first minute or so, but then the whole thing starts falling apart, quickly soaking us as we scamper out of range. Once the structure is completely flat, the rain dissipates, leaving nothing but damp wood blocks on a muddy surface.

"Could have gone worse," Marius says, but I'm not quite sure what he's referring to anymore.

Thus, I just reply with "You said it best."

It's official, he's gone head over heels. Not that I want to wreck his emotional state or anything, but that just isn't going to work here. I have to let him down, and I'm not quite sure how to do it.

Whatever. That's not the focus of the moment. I'll ask Anisa before private sessions.

Right now, I need to focus on not wanting to die.

* * *

 **Lacey Loveless, District Eight Female**

* * *

I sent Alexa to scout potential allies about half an hour ago.

Considering I'd already tried and failed several times before managing to snag Alexa (boy from Four and girl from Twelve, respectively), I've concluded that I might be scaring people away. Sure, Alexa might not be much better, but slim odds are better than no odds whatsoever.

She's currently engaged in a conversation with a girl I've deduced is from District Six (every girl except for the ones from Three, Six, and Twelve have alliances already, and she's too tall to be the girl from Three or Twelve). I can't see their facial expressions from here, so I have no idea how it's going, but I hope Alexa's better at persuading people than I am.

The Careers have five people. The anti-Careers have four. We need to have more than two people if we want to be any sort of competitive. While three against four or three against five still isn't exactly balanced, at least we'd have a chance.

Alexa is either getting frustrated or getting close to her goal because her gestures are getting more and more exaggerated by the second. Then, after a minute more, they stop entirely. Lucky for us, when that happens, the girl trails Alexa as she returns.

As soon as she sees me, she smiles. "We got her. I'd introduce her, but I think she can introduce herself."

The girl steps into the spotlight, at least six inches taller than me and three inches taller than Alexa. She tries not to look down at us, but it's probably way harder than it seems. "Uh, sorry this is so awkward, but we should probably learn each other's names…"

"Makes logical sense," I reply. "Lacey Loveless, District Eight."

"Interesting name," she says. Thankfully, she doesn't push it any further. "Zari Morelett, District Six. Nice to meet you."

She extends her hand, and I shake it more out of courtesy than anything else. "Same here. Now, we only have a few hours left to train and get to know each other. Should we try and come to a consensus on what we should do next, or are we just going somewhere?"

"The Careers are all in the Scenario Simulators right now," Zari says. "I don't have a ton of practice with weapons, and if we want to win, we're going to have to use them at some point."

"I agree," Alexa says. "Lacey here-" she points to me- "had a lot more experience with weapons than I expected. However, the two of us need to prepare so we can help her if it comes to that. I'd suggest the target range, just because as far as I can tell, none of the Careers specialize in throwing weapons, so they probably won't bother us."

Anything that prevents us from having to talk to or see the Careers works for me. "Target range sounds good."

Zari simply nods and starts off. Alexa begins to follow, but I quickly pull her aside to whisper something in her ear. "She's perfect. As far as I can tell, she seems competent, but worst comes to worst, I have a feeling we'll be able to outrun her. Now, let's hit the target range and see if she's any good at throwing weapons."

"Sure thing," she says before the two of us hustle in the general direction of Zari. We find her in the 'light weapon' section, picking up half a dozen knives, a slingshot, and some kind of disc-like weapon I've never seen before. I add a couple of more knives to the collection, while Alexa gets another slingshot, two more pointy disc-things, and a small ax.

Then, we arrive at the target range, pleased to find it mostly empty except for the small boy from twelve, who's heaving knives at seemingly random angles and speeds. Out of the dozen or so he throws, only one or two actually hit and stick.

We move out of the way, since we don't want to appear that intimidating. Not yet. Save it for later.

"So," Alexa says. "Single file, youngest first?"

The rest of us just nod, seeing as that's the easiest way to go. Alexa gets in front, and I fall in behind Zari. Alexa goes for the ax first, throwing it as hard as she can.

It's not in the silhouette of a human superimposed over the target, but it sticks off to the side. Zari tries with a knife, but it misses the target entirely and bounces off the wall. Then I make a move, also with a knife. I don't have much throwing practice, but it can't be too hard.

I'm swiftly proven wrong. My first knife falls about five feet short.

Three throws later, we're starting to get the hang of it. Alexa has ditched the knife for a slingshot and ammo, whereas Zari's trying out some of those disc things. However, I'm sticking with knives, considering both my last two throws successfully got inside the silhouette. Everything seems to be going perfectly, until the boy from Twelve suddenly grabs his knives and leaves the area.

We probably should have left as well, considering the implications that probably had, but for whatever reason, we either couldn't or wouldn't see the obvious signs. Less than fifteen seconds after the boy leaves, he's replaced by literally every female Career in the Games. The girls from One and Two take the lead, while the girl from Four hangs back, watching from the periphery.

They settle into the target next to us, seemingly ignoring us for a while. They grunt and make a lot of obnoxious noises as they throw their own weapons, but otherwise seem to ignore us for a while. Even when the girl from Four briefly joins, hurling a trident into the center of the target from ten yards away, they don't bother us, which I see as odd.

Until Alexa misses again, that is. After tiring of the slingshot, she switches back to a knife, and her throw is just a few inches to the right. At that, the girls from One and Two both burst into snickers, which makes Alexa's face go bright red.

"Just as I suspected," the girl from Two whispers to the girl from One with every intent for us to hear. "Nothing more than amateurs."

Oddly enough, the girl from Four proceeds to groan and vanish from sight.

It's my turn now. I'm not exactly mad, since what she said _is_ technically true. I just feel like that's the kind of girl Taffeta would verbally eviscerate if it came to that. "This is for you, Taffeta," I mutter under my breath as I pick up three knives.

The first one hits the target in the chest.

The second, the head.

And the third? Right where the target's crotch would be.

I don't say anything. No need to piss the two of them off any more than I already have. Thankfully, that's the end of our interactions. The two of them go back to hurling knives, and we do the same. However, when it's Zari's turn to throw, I whisper to Alexa, "Was that awesome, or was that awesome?"

"It was," she responds as Zari returns to the back of the line.

Zari appears to have heard, since she smiles at the two of us before we resume throwing stuff at the target.

This isn't exactly what I'd expect in a friendship. But in the Games, even a tangential friendship is a gold mine; you'll get returns from it as long as you can keep putting something into it.

* * *

 **Alliance Tracker:**

 **Careers:** Nascar, Clara, Godric, Galadia, Sienna

 **Anti-Careers:** Faolan, Artesia, Thomiah, Odysea

 **Six, Seven, Eight:** Zari, Alexa, Lacey

 **Opposites Attract:** Spark, Catarina

 **One-Way Romance:** Marius, Toren

 **Unaligned (For Now):** Rhaemyr, Sotia, Vick, Remi, Aryion, Romeo, Maxxer, Fox

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

-The scene at the beginning was a scene I was looking forward to writing for a long time. I'm happy to finally put it on paper.

-I don't have much else. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and see you next chapter!


End file.
